


Too Many War Wounds, But Not Enough Wars

by ladypigswagon



Series: Irresistible [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Background Relationships, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Magic, Magic and Science, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nogitsune Trauma, Older Stiles Stilinski, Rimming, Sentient Nematon, Smoker Stiles, Smoking, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5969587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nematon is dying.  The once bountiful tree is withering, a husk of it’s former glory.  It’s skeletal, shrunken and wilted and no one knows how to fix it. It’s supposed to be the height of summer but you wouldn’t know it. The Nematon isn’t the only tree that’s falling apart. Peter folds his arms. His eyes narrow as Jennifer, the emissary from Kali’s pack, tries to communicate with the sentient tree.  She’s waving her arms around and chanting but so far all she’s managed to do is look like a complete imbecile.  She’s the sixth emissary in as many months and still the tree decays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Many War Wounds, But Not Enough Wars

**Author's Note:**

> So wow, this took months of planning and drafting and writing but I think I'm finally done. This is the longest piece of fan fiction I've ever written and I hope you enjoy it as I much as I did writing it. God, wow, ok, let's do this.

The Nematon is dying. The once bountiful tree is withering, a husk of it’s former glory. It’s skeletal, shrunken and wilted and no one knows how to fix it. It’s supposed to be the height of summer but you wouldn’t know it. The Nematon isn’t the only tree that’s falling apart. Peter folds his arms. His eyes narrow as Jennifer, the emissary from Kali’s pack, tries to communicate with the sentient tree. She’s waving her arms around and chanting but so far all she’s managed to do is look like a complete imbecile. She’s the sixth emissary in as many months and still the tree decays.

 

Peter’s eyes flick to Talia, who is standing with Kali across the clearing. To the casual observer she looks calm. Collected. Peter knows better. They need this to work. The Nematon’s illness is affecting the whole town and if it carries on this way, the town’s population will wither and die, the supernaturally inclined first. And if they don’t sort this out soon, who knows when that will be. The Nematon has always been volatile; being sick has made it more so. Peter nearly lost a limb when roots caused a fire hydrant to explode yesterday. Time is not a luxury they can afford and foolish, arrogant emissaries are squandering it.

 

“It’s not working,” Jennifer, declares, kicking fallen leaves in distain, “It won’t let me in.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. This has been a recurring problem; one he wishes could be dealt with. The tree is like a wounded animal, lashing out at anyone who approaches. Whilst Peter can sympathize, it means no one can discover what’s wrong.

 

“I am sorry Talia,” Kali says, eyes downcast, “I wish we could provide more help.”

 

Talia puts a reassuring hand on Kali’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

 

“You tried and that is all I can ask of you. You are welcome to stay a few more days before travelling back to your territory.”

 

Peter tunes out after that, bored by simple platitudes. This is not getting anything done. Talia approaches him while Kali helps Jennifer pack away whatever she was using to channel her magic. Peter raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking in the direction of Jennifer, broadcasting the fact that he is unamused. Talia sighs. She looks tired.

 

“We need to have a meeting,” Talia says, “I’ll call Deaton, can you call Scott for me?”

 

Peter pulls out his phone instead of replying. Time to get the gang together.

 

//

 

Talia’s office is Peter’s favourite room in the house. For starters, it’s soundproof, to prevent the well-meaning but nosy Hale family from listening in to important matters. But also it contains one of the largest collections of supernatural folklore in the United States, thus is always smells like knowledge and books. The wolfsbane-spiked bourbon in the cabinet is another wonderful feature. Talia has poured herself a glass, swirling it around the crystal rather than consuming it. Scott is sitting in one of the leather armchairs by the fireplace, nervously playing with the bottom of his shirt. Peter isn’t sure what to make of Scott. A true alpha is a rare thing and Scott is a good alpha to his pack. He’s kind, considerate and a natural leader. However he’s also ridiculously moral which is just frighteningly dull after a while. He has a strange puppy-like demeanor that makes it impossible to tease him without fear of feeling like you’ve just kicked said puppy through a window.

 

The door opens and Deaton, the Hale pack emissary enters. Peter has always been unsettled by Deaton. He remains calm regardless of the situation and is annoyingly cryptic when it comes to parting with information. Sometimes Peter wonders if he’s even on their side at all.

 

“Apologies,” Deaton says, taking a the other armchair across from Scott, “I was looking at a pregnant Doberman on the other side of town.”

 

With Talia sat in her desk chair, Peter is the only one standing. He perches on the corner of the desk to avoid looking like he’s looming. He’ll leave that to his socially inept nephew.

 

“Did Jennifer not work out?” Scott asks.

 

“Jennifer was unable to communicate with the Nematon,” Talia replies. She sips her bourbon briefly before placing the glass on a coaster. “We have to consider another option and this time I don’t think a pack emissary is going to be the answer.”

 

“A mage will require money or something to bargain with,” Peter says, “I for one, am not willing to part with any particular tomes unless the mage has been properly vetted.”

 

“Seconded,” Deaton says. Peter smirks. It is so rare that the emissary agrees with him.

 

“Mage?” Scott enquires. His youth surprises Peter sometimes; he is used to alphas having a vast supernatural knowledge or at least arrogant enough to fake it.

 

“Mage, witch, sorcerer,” Peter lists, “Someone gifted with magic.” He waggles his fingers in Scott’s direction.

 

“I thought emissaries had magic?” Scott says, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow.

 

“We are able to use magic,” Deaton explains, “But we are not naturally gifted with it. Some are born with abilities to use it freely in addition to using spells. One that will help us will most likely be an magical consultant and Peter is right, they will want a large quantity of money or something from the Hale’s collection.”

 

“The question,” Peter ponders, “is who do we choose? Mages are notoriously difficult to get a hold of unless you’re already in the know.”

 

“I have one in mind,” Talia says. Peter turns his head to look at his sister. She seems tense, the way she always does when she has to impart bad news. It’s in the tight line of her shoulders.

 

“Excellent,” Deaton says.

 

“Who?” Scott asks.

 

Talia’s eyes flick to Peter and his mouth goes dry. He stands, fingers curling into fists.

 

“He won’t come here,” Peter says.

 

“You’ll have to make him.”

 

Peter laughs but it’s hollow and derisive.

 

“He won’t want to see me,” Peter says, “I know for a fact that he probably won’t let me near him and even if he would let me come within a five feet radius, he hasn’t been in contact in years, how will we even find him?”

 

“Who are we talking about?” Scott enquires.

 

“None of your concern,” Peter snaps, not taking his eyes off Talia. “He will not come here and even if he agreed it is cruel to make him. You know why he left, we don’t know the damage it will cause coming back here.”

 

“We are out of options,” Talia replies, “the Nematon will die and it will take the town with it. We have a duty to protect this town and it’s citizens, so you are just going to have to deal with it and put your personal feelings aside.”

 

“How can you expect me to do that?” Peter snarls. Talia flashes her eyes in warning.

 

“I have already booked your flight, I suggest you pack a bag,” Talia says, getting to her feet. She’s only half an inch taller than Peter but the way she holds herself makes her tower above him. She hands him a yellow post it note with an address scrawled across it.

 

“How did you get this?” Peter asks, finger tracing the numbers and letters.

 

“How do you think?” Talia retorts. She turns her attention to Scott, apparently done with Peter for the moment. “Scott I’ve spoken to your mother and I wish for you to go too, I believe that your presence will be more convincing because of your status.”

 

Scott nods. He looks determined, less like a puppy and more like a wolf. However the image is ruined when he opens his mouth.

 

“So, err exactly where are we going?”

 

//

 

It’s so perfectly ordinary that it’s laughable. A tiny town in the middle of god knows where, hours from the nearest city. A pottery shop of all things. It’s so ridiculously mundane. But then again, mundane is probably a comfort these days.

 

Peter takes a sip of coffee. Scott is sitting across from him, nervously tapping his fingers on the table. Peter hasn’t told him anything. He doesn’t plan to. Scott is the one variable that won’t have been calculated. No one was expecting an omega with an attitude problem to become a true alpha.

 

“What’s he like?” Scott asks, “The mage?”

 

Peter chuckles, putting the empty coffee cup on the metal table.

 

“When I knew him, he was intelligent, cunning, quick-witted, ruthlessly efficient, kind. He was always good with Derek, brought him out of his shell in a way his family never could.”

 

“You were close?”

 

Peter smiles. This one is soft, not his usual smug, cruel smirk.

 

“Intimately so.”

 

Peter looks across the street. The plastic sign of the pottery shop creaks in the breeze. He sighs.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

The walk across the street is easy; the traffic here seems to consist of the occasional pickup and cop car. The shop is empty which will make this all that much easier. The glass door knocks the shop bell; its ring is shrill and unpleasant. The shelves are cluttered with all sorts of ceramic junk, most of it ugly. Scott starts to wander round, looking at most of the stock with confusion. Peter breathes in the smell of clay and paint and citrus. Specifically lime citrus.

 

A heartbeat, a loud thump. Peter hears him before he sees him, coming in from the back of the shop. Skinny jeans that are ripped just below the knee, ironic t-shirt underneath a thick plaid shirt. Hair longer, gone is the buzz cut. But regardless of the passage of time, those eyes never change. The color of sunlight streaming through a glass of whiskey. Amber, honey, gold, bronze, all these colors for the same set of eyes. They’ve always been breathtaking to Peter.

 

“Hello Stiles,” Peter says, his voice feeling like it’s being run over broken glass. Stiles is paused in the doorway, mouth parted slightly. The moment seems to elongate and shorten all at once.

 

“No,” Stiles says, eyes wide with panic, hand going out to grip the doorframe, “no, no, no, no way in hell. Whatever shit you’ve got yourself into, I want no part in it. Get some other mage ok, I don’t do that shit anymore, the sharpest thing I get close to now is a craft knife. I am done. I am done with that life.”

 

“Stiles,” Peter says, arm raised slightly as he tries to placate Stiles, “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t a last resort.”

 

Stiles snorts, folding his arms and rolling his eyes.

 

“I don’t care, you and alpha buddy can fuck off back to Beacon Hills cause I am not helping you.”

 

Scott is standing awkwardly off to the side, looking like he’s rather be anywhere but here. Perfect time to introduce him then.

 

“Stiles, meet Scott McCall, true alpha,” Peter says, gesturing to Scott, who smiles and waves. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

 

“True alpha? Well that changes everything.”

 

“Really?” Scott asks eagerly. Stiles gives him a pitying look.

 

“No.”

 

“Stiles,” Peter chides, “Please be reasonable.”

 

“No Peter,” Stiles says, unfolding his arms and raising them in a way that would indicate _what the fuck man_. “I’m not going down that road again, ok? And you can’t manipulate me into doing so; nothing you say is going to change my mind.”

 

Stiles turns away, retreating across the threshold into the back of the shop.

 

“The Nematon is dying,” Scott blurts. Peter grits his teeth, wincing slightly. Scott is ever eloquent. But Stiles has paused in the doorway.

 

“What?” Stiles asks. He turns around slowly.

 

“It’s dying and it’s going to take the whole town with it. We’ve tried everything and Talia said you’re an expert,” Scott replies.

 

“What about Deaton? Morrell? Or hell even Jennifer Blake?”

 

“No one knows the Nematon like you, it’s not responding and if we’re not careful we’ll end up crawling in wannabe darachs,” Peter states.

 

“Please, lives are at stake,” Scott pleads. Peter is impressed that Scott manages to bring out the full puppy mode without even meaning to.

 

“And what about my life?” Stiles snaps, staring directly at Peter with tears pricking his eyes, “I am making a life here. If I do this, I don’t think I can come back from it. Not a second time.”

 

It doesn’t sound like a lie, more like a half-truth. Peter knows he has forgone the right to ask.

 

“The whole town will die if you don’t,” Peter says, reaching for Stiles hands. Stiles jerks away, letting Peter’s hand drop, “Children will die. **_Please_** Stiles.”

 

Stiles cups the back of his neck, nails digging in. He looks up at Peter, eyes shining.

 

“How did you even find me?”

 

“Stiles,” Peter reprimands, “I should have thought that was obvious.”

 

Stiles grimaces.

 

“I’m expected to drop everything just because you came calling, like I owe you something. If I do this, I won’t come back the same, hell I might not even come back at all.”

 

Stiles voice is raw; shattered in a way that Peter has been all too familiar with.

 

“You don’t owe me,” Peter says, pushing his coat back to place his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “But I believe you owe Deaton a fair few favors.”

 

Stiles laugh is dismissive.

 

“Yeah, and only Deaton gets to call them in,” Stiles replies. He makes a show of looking around the shop. “Doesn’t look like he’s here.”

 

“Consider us calling it in on his behalf.”

 

Stiles hands curl into fists. He uncurls them, fingers trembling. Despite the passage of time, Stiles still looks haunted. It’s in the dark circles under his eyes, the bitten lips. Peter wishes he could undo it all but wishes are about as useful as serving tea from a cracked teapot. Stiles looks up at him, biting his lip and splitting it.

 

“Shit,” Stiles mutters, tongue lapping at the blood. Peter reaches one hand into his coat pocket, offering a white handkerchief. Stiles ignores the offer, turning away to walk to the counter.

 

“Give me an hour to pack,” Stiles says. His voice is like iron. “I’m gonna need some things.”

 

//

 

“Um, we have tickets for a flight back to California” Scott states, eyeing Stiles jeep with something akin to great concern. Peter shares the sentiment. Stiles jeep, which is parked behind the pottery shop, is scuffed, bent and seemingly held together with duct tape. There’s a suspicious looking stain on the passenger seat that is an odd shade of black.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles scoffs, “cause airport security is known for being really lenient when it comes to this kind of stuff.”

 

Stiles reaches into his duffle bag and pulls out a large serrated knife, waving it in Scott’s direction. Scott’s eyes follow it uneasily. Stiles smirks before shoving the knife back in the bag. He chucks it into the back of the jeep alongside Peter and Scott’s overnight bags before slamming the door. It lands with a loud clunk, the sound of many knives clacking together. Scott scratches the back of his head, eyes flicking towards Peter. Peter tries to give him a reassuring smile.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says delicately, “When was the last time this car was serviced?”

 

“Um,” Stiles mutters, opening the driver side door, head turning to look at Peter, “Never.”

 

“What?”

 

“Thing runs on magic,” Stiles says as he climbs inside, “literally tied to my magic source, it’ll only die if I die. Now get in, I thought we were running out of time.”

 

Scott shrugs, tilting his head to one side.

 

“Shotgun,” Peter declares, walking around to the passenger side. Scott climbs into the back, sitting in the middle. Stiles clicks his finger and the engine roars to life. The radio comes on but it’s static so Stiles fiddles with it. He bangs the top of it a couple of times muttering something like ‘ _Roscoe don’t do this to me’_ before some sort of indie emo band that Derek likes starts playing through the speakers.

 

“Really Stiles?” Peter questions, eyes flicking to the radio and back to Stiles. Stiles wrist is leaning over the wheel, other hand on the gear stick.

 

“Driver picks the music,” Stiles says, “Shotgun is gonna keep his mouth shut until we get to California otherwise shotgun is gonna be left by the side of the road.”

 

Scott chuckles. He tries to disguise it as coughing when Peter glares at him.

 

“Buckle up wolves,” Stiles mutters, yanking the glove compartment open and pulling a pair of aviators out. He opens them one handed then puts them on his face. His grin is crooked when he turns to look at Peter. “It’s gonna be a long ride.”

 

//

 

The drive is practically silent. Every time Peter tries to speak, the radio increases in volume. Eventually he just stops trying. They drive until night falls. Stiles pulls into a cheap motel, telling them that he isn’t paying expenses and that they’ll have to sort out their own rooms. Peter graciously agrees to pay for Scott and him to share a room. Stiles pays for his own, shouting over his shoulder for them to be ready by seven the next morning before the door clicks shut behind him.

 

Scott flops down on the bed, flicking off his shoes and snoring within minutes. Peter tries to get comfortable on the lumpy bed but it is impossible. He tosses and turns, getting more and more irritated by the second. Frustrated, he tries to calm himself by listening for Stiles heartbeat. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t heard it for about seven years; Peter could always pick it out in a crowd. Given the position of the rooms, Peter should be picking up from behind him, as the beds are against the wall however the beat appears to be coming from outside.

 

Peter considers the possibility of Stiles running off into the night and leaving them here. It’s not like he really knows Stiles anymore, people are in a constant state of change; the person you are now is not the same person you were a week ago. Or a month ago. Or a year ago. Peter gets up, the sheets rustling softly as he goes. Scott snores loudly, flipping over on the mattress so Peter doesn’t feel the need to tiptoe around him. Because he isn’t a complete asshole, he makes sure that the door doesn’t slam shut behind him.

 

Stiles is leaning against the railings, white smoke that smells like menthol curling up around him. He takes a long drag, blowing it out slowly. One leg is tucked behind the other, one arm lying on the railing, the wrist hanging limply. The other holds the cigarette, the elbow the only part in contact with the metal. Stiles t-shirt is oversized, it has slipped off one shoulder. The strip lighting above them bathes Stiles in a washed out yellow light, making him appear gaunt and sallow, making the tattoos that cover his arms and shoulder look faded. If he knows that Peter is there, he doesn’t acknowledge him.

 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Peter says, breaking the silence between them. This is true; Stiles scent hasn’t been tainted by the stench of smoke at any point all day. Now the smoke overshadows the usual scent of lime.

 

“Bad habit,” Stiles replies. He doesn’t look at Peter, instead his eyes look out across the car park. “One of many. Blood magic is an addiction, had to replace it with something equally addictive. This seemed better than drinking or drugs. I didn’t want to feel out of control.”

 

Peter stands beside Stiles. He doesn’t lean on the railing but does follow Stiles line of vision. The electric lighting buzzes overhead, like a thousand flies flitting around them.

 

“So,” Stiles muses, stubbing the cigarette out on the rusty metal before flicking it over the railings. “A true alpha in Hale territory. Talia’s ok with that?”

 

“Scott doesn’t want to cause any trouble. He genuinely believes in co-operation and harmonious living. Reluctant to spill any blood in unnecessary territory brawls.”

 

“That would defeat the purpose of being a true alpha,” Stiles points out, yanking a cigarette box from the back pocket of his jeans. He pulls one out, shoving the box back where it came from. Putting the cigarette between his lips, he mutters an incantation and it lights itself.

 

“I suppose it does,” Peter replies softly. He looks at Stiles lips, once plush but now cracked and bitten.

 

“He won’t be pleased about the blood magic then,” Stiles jokes, lips splitting into a sarcastic smirk.

 

“It is unlikely.”

 

Stiles takes a few drags on his cigarette. He holds it with a lazy wrist, clamped between his index and middle finger. Peter wonders how soon he picked up the habit after he left. They stand there in silence, the night air stagnant around them, until Stiles finishes his cigarette.

 

“Does our deal still hold?” Stiles asks, flicking the second cigarette stub off the railing.

 

“Deal?” Peter enquires. Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“Don’t be a dick,” Stiles responds, “You know what I mean.”

 

Peter sighs.

 

“Yes our deal still holds.”

 

“Good. Everything else may be fucked but I’m gonna need you to do this.”

 

“I said I would, regardless of how things ended.”

 

Stiles runs his thumb across his bottom lip, catching the nail on a bit of loose skin. He drops his hand, his tongue darting out to smooth over the rip.

 

“It’s the one thing I’m relying on Peter,” Stiles says, “Don’t fuck it up.”

 

With that, he turns away, walking back to his room. The door closes with a soft click behind him.

 

//

 

The next couple of days follow the same pattern, cheap motels and even cheaper food. Peter detests the taste of gas station sandwiches but his options are fairly limited. Scott seems happy to wolf down anything regardless of the ingredients. Stiles is neither as picky as Peter nor as unselective as Scott. He drinks a lot of coffee, black and bitter. Peter asks if Stiles still takes Adderall. Stiles makes a non-committal noise and chugs his third coffee of the day.

 

Stiles music selection seems to shift with his mood. He fiddles with the radio the moment that it starts to crackle, changing the station almost constantly. Happily, Peter notes, jazz and swing still seem to be favorites. Peter wonders whether Stiles ever thinks about when they went to see Jamie Cullum in concert, huddled together in Peter’s coat to prevent the winter air from chilling them. They’d sang along to every song, Stiles voice was so hoarse the next day that he sounded like a forty a day smoker. Peter had made him chicken soup and despite Stiles protests had fed it to him in bed. Peter doesn’t ask, but he smiles softly to himself when he hears Stiles hum along to Blame It On My Youth.

 

If feels like the longest time and yet no time at all, until they’re less than a hundred miles away from Beacon Hills. The landscape slips away from them, the desert sands shifting with the gentle decline of the sun. Scott phones Allison when they’re less than an hour away. Peter pointedly tunes out the conversation to avoid the trivialities of teenage romance.

 

“Allison Argent?” Stiles mutters. Peter nods, fishing his own phone out from his pocket in order to call Talia. Stiles looks incredulous for a few moments before shaking his head.

 

“That’s just fucking stupid.”

 

Peter smirks as he presses the phone to his ear.

 

//

 

Stiles entire posture changes as the Jeep trundles up the path to the Hale house. He’s been slouched, almost crumbling into himself the entire trip. Now he’s tall, straight backed and sharp. Even Scott, the permanently unobservant, notices Stiles change in stature. His eyes flick to Peter, confusion evident. Peter ignores him, smiling at Stiles. Stiles keeps his eyes fixed ahead of him.

 

Talia is standing on the porch when the Jeep pulls up outside the house. Laura stands just behind her, arms folded but excitement pouring from her in waves. Deaton is sitting in one of the wicker armchairs. He rises when the Jeep is properly parked. Scott is the first out, bounding up the stairs to greet Talia. Stiles twirls the Jeep keys around his finger several times, uneager to open the door. Peter pauses, one leg on the ground but not fully out of the passenger seat yet.

 

“Stiles,” Peter prompts, wondering if he should put a hand on Stiles shoulder and whether that would be well received. Stiles grips the keys tightly, parting his lips slightly. Peter watches Stiles run his tongue along the edge of his teeth before he kicks the door open and jumps out.

 

“Alpha Hale,” Stiles says, voice neutral.

 

“Stiles,” Talia responds, walking down the porch steps to greet him. Her smile is gentle, almost wary as if she doesn’t know how Stiles will react to familiarity. Stiles shakes her outstretched hand but doesn’t initiate scent marking. Talia manages not to show her disappointment outwardly. Laura walks down the steps, leaving Deaton and Scott on the porch.

 

“Uncle Stiles, is that really you?” Laura asks, voice incredulous. Stiles manages to keep his expression neutral but his hand twitched when Laura spoke.

 

“Sort of,” Stiles replies, tone indicating that he’s making an attempt at humor. “But let’s keep the Uncle Stiles to a minimum, not exactly your uncle am I.”

 

Laura opens her mouth to contradict him but snaps it shut when she spots Peter’s expression. Silence descends upon them, smothering the conversation like a thick blanket. Stiles smiles crookedly.

 

“Well, let’s get a look at this Nematon so I can do my thing and then get the fuck out of here,” He says, walking around to the back of the Jeep to retrieve his duffle bag. He swings it onto his shoulder. The sound of knifes clanking against each other is deafening in the silence. Since the Nematon began to die, the preserve has been quiet, as if the animals have all been waiting with bated breath.

 

“Follow me,” Talia says, taking the lead. Stiles walks behind her, black boots crunching on the hard earth.

 

Somewhere in the preserve, the ground around the Nematon rumbles.

 

//

 

When Stiles enters the clearing, Peter relishes in the wonderful sight of him ripping into an idiotic deputy. Deputy Haig, chainsaw in hand and being egged on by a few other dimwits from the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department, is advancing on the Nematon with a look of either bravery of pure stupidity.

 

“Hey,” Stiles shouts, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

 

Deputy Haig stops immediately, mouth falling open in shock as Stiles strides over to him.

 

“The Nematon is the problem,” He stammers, “If we remove the problem.”

 

“Do you want to level the whole town?” Stiles snaps, pushing Deputy Haig backwards. He stumbles, dropping the chainsaw just shy of his own feet. “Jesus, who the fuck raised you?”

 

Haig splutters angrily. Laura snorts, raising her hand to her face so that it looks like she’s coughing. Peter shares a look of amusement with Talia. Even the corners of Deaton’s lips curl upwards.

 

“You,” Stiles instructs, poking Haig directly in the chest, “Stand over there like a good deputy so I don’t have to feed you to the Nematon. Though I doubt you’d make a suitable meal.”

 

Haig looks like he’s about to argue but one flash of Talia’s eyes and he’s meekly returning to the group of Deputies who are supposed to be guarding the tree. They all look at their shoes, suitably chastised.

 

Stiles drops his bag onto the forest floor. He tilts his neck up to look at the tree, biting his lip. Eyes narrowed, Stiles walks around the base of the tree, muttering to himself. When he leans over, Peter takes a moment to stare unashamedly at his ass. The jeans he’s wearing are particularly tight, and Peter is nothing if not appreciative. Stiles may have a haunted look about him but he’s still as exquisite as the day he left.

 

Stiles stands up, rolling his shoulder a couple of times. He pushes the sleeves of his plaid shirt up to the elbow, folding them over a few times. Stiles flexes his fingers, breathing in deeply and out slowly.

 

“This may not go to plan,” Stiles announces, “So I’d stand back a bit if I were you.”

 

The Deputies almost trip over themselves as they scramble backwards. Peter rolls his eyes, going to stand next to Talia. Scott stands with Deaton whilst Laura slouches against a tree but her eyes track Stiles every movement.

 

Stiles closes his eyes and places his right hand on the Nematon. The ground shakes, the Nematon quivering all over. Stiles eyes open, the beautiful amber gone. The entirety of Stiles eyes are pearlescent. Stiles lips fall open, mouthing indistinguishable words. His tattoos writhe and twist, colors flickering. The air tastes like static electricity, like a thousand lighting bolts striking the earth simultaneously. Talia grips Peter’s forearm to steady herself, claws digging into his skin. Peter growls but grabs hold of Talia’s shoulder.

 

Stiles takes his hand off of the Nematon, stumbling backwards and sinking to his knees. Instantaneously, the ground stops shaking.

 

“What just happened?” Scott asks weakly from where he’s fallen to the floor.

 

“I got good news and bad news,” Stiles says. He then promptly throws up black vomit. Peter sprints over, hands out to help but Stiles waves him away. He throws up another round of black vomit, which is spotted with what looks like acorns and several leaves. Stiles spits out a few molding leaves, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

“Bad news is, the Nematon is being poisoned,” Stiles says, ignoring Peter’s offered hand and getting to his feet. “Practically nightly so regardless of what I do to fix it, unless we stop the person doing it, my input will be null and void. If it continues to be poisoned then it will tear the town apart, and given how far the poison has already spread, that’s gonna be sooner rather than later.”

 

“What will it take to fix it?” Talia asks. Stiles grimaces.

 

“Blood magic would be the best bet,” He says, “But it’s gonna take a lot of blood. Probably a whole town full.”

 

“What like a pint each?” Laura asks. Stiles shakes his head.

 

“I mean literally a whole town full,” Stiles says, “Drained dry, which would defeat the purpose of me fixing the damn thing in the first place.”

 

Talia looks to Peter, her expression grave.

 

“And the good news?” Scott enquires, ever the optimist.

 

“I lied about the good news,” Stiles replies. He winces before vomiting more black gunk. Peter takes a step back to avoid getting it on his shoes.

 

“We need to call a town meeting,” Talia says, alpha authority ringing in her voice, “We need to go over our options.”

 

“Probably a good plan,” Stiles says. He dry heaves. “Might want to wait until I stop recreating the exorcist though.”

 

Talia nods. Stiles smirks. Then he throws up the bones of a small mouse.

 

//

  

Peter enjoys town meetings in the sense that he enjoys watching everyone from the shadows. People are so blasé when they think they aren’t being watched. Peter makes it his business to know everything about the major players in this town, for his own security if nothing else. Chris Argent, Mayor Finstock, Talia, Scott, Isaac (Scott’s second) Deaton and the Sheriff all sat around a table trying to solve the town’s problems through debate. Featuring occasional guest stars such as Morrell and Deucalion when they’re in town.

 

Currently they’re waiting on Mayor Finstock and the Sheriff. Isaac and Scott are deep in conversation with Deaton. Chris Argent, who is a stand in for his formidable father, is watching Stiles with something akin to mild awe and serious suspicion. Stiles ignores him, too busy lighting the cigarette between his lips.

 

“How did Finstock get re-elected?” Stiles asks around the cigarette.

 

“God knows,” Peter replies, “Bribery I assume.”

 

“Who ran against him?”

 

“Whittemore.”

 

Stiles snorts, which make it looks like the smoke is pouring from his nostrils. The sound of footsteps causes Peter to turn his gaze from Stiles to the other end of the corridor. Mayor Finstock is marching towards them, the Sheriff a few steps behind.

 

“Let’s get this over with,” Finstock barks. To Peter’s annoyance, Finstock seems incapable of speaking at anything less than full volume. Finstock pushes past them, flopping down into his usual seat. Whilst the others take their seats, Peter watches the Sheriff and Stiles. The Sheriff is managing not to look too emotional, but looks like he’s considering whether he should hug Stiles and if Stiles would let him.

 

“Hey Dad,” Stiles says.

 

“Dad?” Scott whispers, sharing a look of utter confusion with Isaac.

 

“Hi son,” John replies.

 

There’s a moment of silence.

 

Then.

 

“Are you smoking?”

 

//

 

John and Stiles have the sense to take their argumentative reunion outside though that seems redundant to a room full of werewolves and the fact that when Stiles gets going, his voice isn’t exactly quiet. Everyone sort of shuffles about awkwardly, making polite small talk and pretending they can’t hear.

 

“For fuck’s sake Dad, I’m twenty nine.”

 

“I don’t care how old you are!”

 

“Chris,” Talia says pointedly, “How’s your father doing?”

 

“Not brilliantly, the medication is helping but he’s still unwell,” Chris replies.

 

“AND ANOTHER THING, I TOLD YOU THAT I DIDN’T WANT ANYONE TO KNOW WHERE I WAS. I TRUSTED YOU TO KEEP THAT SECRET!”

 

“THIS TOWN IS IN DANGER, WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?”

 

“Did you know the Sheriff was Stiles father?” Scott whispers to Isaac, who shakes his head in way of a reply.

 

Everyone winces when the door slams open. Stiles stalks through it, cigarette noticeable by its absence. John closes the door behind him, pocketing the packet of cigarettes and remaining stoic despite the obvious pain in his eyes. He takes his seat beside Finstock, who not so subtly asks whether those cigarettes are going cheap.

 

“Perhaps we should return to the matter in hand,” Talia suggests, narrowing her eyes at Finstock, who luckily takes the hint and shuts up. “Stiles, would you care to explain?”

 

Stiles, who has been slouched against the wall looking like a sullen teenager, walks over to take a seat. He lounges in it in a way that would suggest comfort in his surroundings, but his eyes tell otherwise. They keep flicking between Chris, his dad and Talia.

 

“The Nematon, which I’ve now re-bonded with by the way and that was an awful experience not to be repeated, is being poisoned on a daily, well more likely, nightly basis. Understandably it’s unhappy because it’s clinging onto life by the tips of it’s roots and if it keeps going that way, it’s gonna level the entire town, supernatural creatures first.”

 

“What are the options?” Chris asks.

 

“The Nematon needs blood, literally an entire town full drained completely dry, which of course defeats the purpose of cleansing the thing in the first place,” Stiles replies. He’s tapping his fingers against his thighs in a repeated pattern.

 

“Couldn’t it be bagged blood?” Scott asks, “Like from a blood bank.”

 

Stiles shakes his head.

 

“Hate to sound like a Broadway musical, but must be blood, must be fresh. Bagged isn’t going to work, it’s dead blood to the Nematon and animal blood isn’t going to cut it either. Plus that’ll end up with animal right’s protests from here to Kentucky and that’s something we don’t need to deal with on top of this madness. We need to be careful about this; I really don’t want to have to explain anything to the NRDC if I’m honest, seeing as I’m no longer on their consultancy payroll. The less government involvement the better.”

 

“Are there any other options?” Talia asks, “Perhaps if we caught the person who’s poisoning the tree, would that help?”

 

“I don’t know, maybe,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his head, “The Nematon may be sentient but it’s still a tree, it doesn’t exactly have a linear or coherent thought process. I’m running blind if I’m perfectly honest.”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?” Isaac asks, his tone doubting and arrogant. John bristles, ready to intercede on his son’s behalf but Stiles gets there first.

 

He laughs. It’s obvious to the entire table that it’s at Isaac’s expense rather than from actual amusement.

 

“Do you have any ideas pup?” Stiles enquires. Isaac pales slightly. Stiles stands, fingers splaying out on the tabletop. “Been a werewolf about five minutes and think you know everything about the supernatural. By all means, go ask the Nematon what it wants; I’m sure you’ll divine something of value.”

 

“I didn’t,” Isaac mutters but Stiles cuts him off.

 

“I have forgotten more about supernatural than you will ever know, so do not speak of things you do not understand.”

 

Isaac sinks in his chair, baring his throat. Stiles chuckles darkly.

 

“I’m going back to the Nematon to do some _divining_. If you don’t want to end up as the first sacrifice, you won’t follow me.”

 

Stiles leaves the room, whistling tunelessly as he goes. Once the door has shut, Isaac finally breathes.

 

//

 

Peter finds Stiles beneath the withering boughs of the Nematon. Stiles has a few leaves in his hair and a twig behind his ear.

 

“I knew you’d follow me,” Stiles says. He’s fiddling with flowers, weaving them together.

 

“Your heartbeat may have been steady but you were lying back there. You know exactly what to do.”

 

Stiles hums. He plaits the stems of the flowers together some more, singing an enchantment softly as he does so. The flowers brighten in color, going from grey scale to saturated.

 

“The supermoon is less than a week away,” Stiles says, “We will all be hyped up on power. It would only take one sacrifice to reverse the damage.”

 

“The person who poisoned it in the first place.”

 

“The universe is all about balance,” Stiles says, winding the chain of flowers around the truck of the tree. “The one to kill it should be the one to save it.”

 

“Well,” Peter muses, “We’d better find them then.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles murmurs, iris’s glowing a faint white, “We’d better.”

 

//

 

It’s raining. It’s raining and Stiles is smoking on the porch. He refuses to come inside, just smokes cigarette after cigarette. Peter watches him from the kitchen window, hardly paying attention to the carrots he’s supposed to be chopping. Talia, John and Deaton have gone up to Talia’s office to discuss potential suspects and precautions that should be taken. When the rain lets up, Stiles will return to the Nematon to collect soil samples, so that they can identify the poison. Until then, Stiles smokes and Peter prepares lunch.

 

“Is he going to come in?”

 

Peter turns to find Derek standing in the kitchen doorway. Peter sighs, chopping the last of the carrots and adding them to the pot.

 

“It is unlikely.”

 

Derek walks across the kitchen to stand with Peter. On the porch, Stiles flicks ash into the ashtray provided.

 

“He smells like smoke,” Derek comments, “Smoke and misery and guilt.”

 

“Again,” Peter says, “Something that is unlikely to change.”

 

Derek processes this, eyes flicking towards Stiles, who is out of cigarettes. He’s standing by the porch railings, apparently on the phone. He’s tapping one finger on the wood whilst he speaks. Peter could listen in, if he was so inclined but he’s fairly certain that Stiles would not appreciate it. Stiles used to be animated when he spoke; big gestures and eyes alight with passion. Now it’s like Stiles is muted, folding in on himself to appear smaller. This version of Stiles is unlikely to knock over glasses in his enthusiasm. In the seven years they’ve been apart, Peter wonders how much of Stiles has healed.

 

Peter ladles soup into a bowl, handing it to Derek.

 

“Take it to him,” Peter instructs. Derek looks panicked and tries to give the bowl back.

 

“He doesn’t want to see us.”

 

“He’ll want to see you,” Peter replies, “You always were his favourite.”

 

Derek looks dubious. Peter sighs again, this time with exasperation.

 

“Trust me on this Derek,” Peter says, “There are many people that Stiles doesn’t want to see and you are not one of them.”

 

“Are you?” Derek asks.

 

Peter ladles soup into bowls and does not answer.

 

//

 

“Well,” Stiles says, as he spoons dirt into little glass test tubes, “Derek kicked puberty in the ass didn’t he?”

 

Peter snorts. Scott, who is standing at the edge of the clearing just looks faintly bemused. Peter isn’t entirely sure why Scott is here. Talia mentioned something about Scott needing to learn something or other, pack diplomacy maybe.

 

“If by that you mean he got taller and started doing weight training then yes.”

 

“Personality hasn’t changed much though,” Stiles notes, scraping bark into a petri dish.

 

“So he’s always been a moody scary badass,” Scott mutters, looking down at his phone. Peter remembers that they’re waiting on Lydia, who apparently insisted on being part of the scientific side of this endeavor. As long as she doesn’t bring Jackson with her, Peter isn’t particularly bothered. She’s the only one of Scott’s pack that he actually likes rather than tolerates.

 

“Oh please,” Stiles scoffs, putting the dishes into a satchel. “You may believe that Derek is this stacked as fuck, intimidating badass but he’s actually an antisocial nerd who is so unbelievably awkward he can only communicate by glaring and raising his eyebrows.”

 

“Really?” Scott asks, sounding somewhat disbelieving.

 

“The guy reads Juana Ines de la Cruz in the original Spanish,” Stiles says, “And until he was fourteen wouldn’t go into the attic because it was full of spider webs. Giant fucking nerd.”

 

Scott looks like his entire worldview has changed and not entirely for the better. He jumps a little when his phone buzzes, fumbling with it. Peter raises his eyes heavenward. Stiles raises an eyebrow as he pushes back his shirtsleeves. His tattoos are vibrant in the evening light. Most are done in a beautiful watercolor style but a few are simple black ink. They are like magic battle scars, signs of spells past. They seem to have brightened since this morning, since Stiles reconnected with the Nematon. The flower chain that Stiles placed there earlier are equally bright and appear to be pulsating.

 

“It’s a magical trip wire,” Stiles explains, “Anyone does any physical magic here, I’ll know. Bastard is probably doing it remotely but doesn’t hurt to have it.”

 

“Lydia is at Allison’s going through the Argent bestiary,” Scott says, studying his phone, “She’ll meet us tomorrow morning to do the analysis. And she’s threatened something that I don’t understand but is probably violent if we start without her.”

 

Scott shows Peter the phone, pointing to the word he doesn’t understand.

 

“Defenestration,” Peter reads aloud, “The act of throwing someone out a window.”

 

“Isn’t the English language amazing?” Stiles mutters. He’s currently digging a hole in the ground to examine the Nematon’s roots. “We have a word for the act of throwing someone out of a window but we don’t have a word for the day after tomorrow.”

 

“Fascinating,” Peter muses. Scott is engrossed in his phone, presumably texting the Argent child.

 

“Where do you plan to stay this evening?” Peter asks, trying to be casual about it. He knows he probably falls short however it doesn’t hurt to wonder.

 

“Dad’s, on the sofa bed,” Stiles responds, standing up. He brushes dirt from his jeans, placing a root tip into a test tube and putting it into the satchel.

 

“Despite your heated argument this morning.”

 

Stiles shrugs.

 

“It’s my Dad,” Stiles says, “We fight, we interfere in each others lives. I harp at him about his diet, he moans about the smoking. But he’s my Dad, no matter what, we’ll make up and move on. I’m even gonna relent on the red meat consumption during my stay.”

 

Peter hums thoughtfully. It was foolish to believe that Stiles would want to set foot inside the Hale house. Regardless of his slightly less hostile attitude, Derek’s doing no doubt, Stiles is still keeping his distance. From almost everyone.

 

Stiles and his father have always been close, a bond that was strong from birth and deeply ingrained after Stiles’ mother died. It makes sense that Stiles would keep in touch with his father after Stiles left; it explains where the Sheriff went when he wasn’t in town. It’s not like Peter didn’t go to the Sheriff’s home, when he was in the house Stiles grew up in, and beg to know where Stiles had gone. John, to his credit, didn’t lie to him. He didn’t exactly tell the truth either but there we go. Peter cannot understand that bond, as close as he is with his family, he is not a parent, nor was he ever close with his own father. Alistair Hale was a man who believed in hands off parenting, more wolf than man.

 

“Not like I’ll be sleeping anyway,” Stiles mutters.

 

“Nightmares?” Peter enquires.

 

Stiles sighs. He swings the satchel onto his shoulder.

 

“We should go before the light fades,” Stiles says, boots crunching on brittle twigs as he walks from the clearing.

 

//

 

“Laura, you’re going to be the alpha, this will be an excellent education experience for you.”

 

“And I have a job interview,” Laura retorts, standing in the kitchen doorway, “A job interview which is important and I told you about last week. Why aren’t you going?”

 

“Because I am coordinating with Sheriff Stilinski to try and find the culprit.”

 

Talia sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her forefinger and thumb. Laura brushes imaginary lint from her pencil skirt; it’s charcoal grey and evidently something Laura stole from Aunt Sofia’s closet. Matching it with a crisp white shirt that she probably stole from Aunt Eleanor and black high heels that Peter is fairly sure no-one in this house owns.

 

“Change your earrings to something more discrete,” Peter says, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

 

Laura reaches a hand up to tug on her earlobe, feeling the garish gold hoops.

 

“Well Stiles can’t just take Lydia,” Talia finally responds.

 

“He’s not,” Peter says, finishing his juice before continuing, “I’m going with them.”

 

“Is that wise?” Talia asks. Peter puts the empty glass into the dishwasher. When he stands up he can see Talia’s dubious yet concerned expression.

 

“What exactly is your concern sister?” Peter enquires, folding his arms across his chest.

 

“That’s my cue,” Laura mutters, retreating hastily from the kitchen.

 

“Only your wellbeing little brother,” Talia responds, slightly amused that they have fallen into this old rhetoric.

 

“My wellbeing?” Peter muses. He taps his claws against the granite top of the island in the middle of the kitchen. “You were the one to tell me to put my personal feelings aside. I can keep my emotions in check, there is no need for me to have a babysitter.”

 

He understands why Talia is concerned. He’s not proud of his behavior after Stiles left. He will be eternally grateful for Talia’s patience throughout the entire ordeal; she of all people knows what it’s like to lose a partner, even if the situations weren’t the same. At least Stiles just left him as opposed to being brutally murdered by hunters. Talia dealt with it by furiously pursuing the hunters into the courts and ensuring they suffered the longest sentence possible. Peter has to admit, the vengeful side of Talia’s personality is something to be admired.

 

“Can you though?” Talia replies. She reaches a hand across the island, placing it gently on top of Peter’s. Peter retracts his claws. He opens his mouth to answer, but the roar of Stiles Jeep cuts him off.

 

“My cue sister dear,” Peter says, pulling his hand away. Talia folds her arms, sighing. Peter smiles winningly in return, walking out of the kitchen door, grabbing his coat on the way. He ignores the feeling of Talia’s alpha eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.

 

Stiles hasn’t styled his hair today, he looks like he just rolled out of bed. Or he would if the dark circles under his eyes didn’t indicate otherwise. For once he isn’t wearing plaid; he’s wearing a forest green t-shirt, dark jeans and a sheepskin lined denim jacket.

 

“We’re picking Lydia Martin up at the Argent house,” Stiles says, pulling out of the drive the moment Peter climbs in. “Apparently cause Argent Senior still doesn’t trust me after the whole Kate was deranged and psychotically violent and tried to burn the Hale House down so I may or may not have sacrificed her to the Nematon thing though it’s never been proven, so he’s sending an Argent with us to analyse the samples. Because apparently I have ‘ _ulterior motives_ ’ and there are reasons to ‘ _distrust my judgment_ ’, which fair enough, I understand that seven years ago I wasn’t exactly rocking good decision making. But it’s still rude, like I have changed as a person since then. Personally I’m hoping Allison was chosen, cause Scott is super into this chick and after the aforementioned Kate debacle, I feel like I need to vet her.”

 

“Out of concern for Scott’s pack or ours?” Peter enquires.

 

“Ours?” Stiles replies, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Slip of the tongue,” Peter retorts, “You didn’t answer the question.”

 

The Jeep turns onto the main high street, heading east.

 

“I’m concerned about the Argent family as a whole,” Stiles replies, “The only one I’ve ever trusted is Chris and trust is a really loose term, more like I know he’ll come through on the bunch of favors he owes me cause he’s all honorable and shit.”

 

The Jeep turns left onto the street where Argent’s house is situated. Peter rarely strays into this side of town, preferring to keep his distance from the vast quantity of wolfsbane bullets. Gerard Argent may be slowly decaying but his mind is straight razor sharp and carries the stench of centuries of prejudice.

 

Thankfully Lydia is standing outside the house, tapping away at her phone and speaking over her shoulder to Allison, who is carrying several large tomes. Stiles pulls up, winding down the window with the crank handle. Peter really needs to convince him to upgrade.

 

“Lydia Martin?” Stiles asks. Lydia’s head snaps up.

 

“You’re Stiles Stilinski?”

 

“The one and only,” Stiles replies, tilting his head to one side and smirking. Lydia looks unimpressed.

 

“Hi, I’m Allison,” Allison says from behind the dusty books.

 

“Good,” Peter says, “We’re all acquainted, shall we get a move on?”

 

Allison and Lydia climb into the backseat and the Jeep screeches away from the curb. Stiles fiddles with the radio until soft guitar music starts playing. When the Jeep reaches the junction, Stiles indicates and turns left.

 

“You’re going the wrong way,” Lydia points out.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “We’re not using the hospital lab.”

 

Peter watches Stiles fingers flex and grip the steering wheel until his knuckles are white.

 

“Why not?” Allison asks. Stiles eyes flick to the rear view mirror as he smirks.

 

“Cause nobody there owes me a favor.”

 

//

 

They hit traffic about half an hour after leaving Beacon Hills. Lydia and Allison settle in the backseat, sharing headphones and Lydia’s Ipad. Stiles seems somewhat relived after answering all of Lydia’s probing questions about Nematon primary metabolism and its effects on the Eco structure and whether this applies to all Nematon’s.

 

“So,” Stiles says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “How many people are part of the Hale pack now?”

 

Peter turns his head from gazing at the window to stare at Stiles. Stiles looks forward to the Toyota in front.

 

“What?” Stiles says, tone defensive, “I can’t ask.”

 

“Considering your refusal to set foot inside the house and frankly hostile attitude since I asked for your help, it seems strange that you would even care.”

 

“Wasn’t that the problem?” Stiles mutters, still looking forward instead of at Peter. “Caring too much.”

 

“Derek and your father told you to be nice to me didn’t they?” Peter accuses.

 

“Well yeah, they did,” Stiles snaps. His scent is acrid, like smoke billowing from a burning building. “But it doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

 

“Are you really going to do this now?” Lydia asks, before Peter can reply, “Not that I don’t believe in detailed communication in order to move forward from past grievances but perhaps now is not the time.”

 

Peter agrees, he wants to have this conversation but not with this audience. Stiles huffs, turning the dial up on the radio. Bad Blood by Bastille is blasted through the speakers. Peter is thankful that it isn’t Taylor Swift.

 

//

 

The rest of the ride is done in awkward silence. Stiles scent is acrid, the smoky scent of anger and bitter tang of guilt. Lydia and Allison have the sense to keep to themselves, chatting quietly in the back. Peter just stares out of the window, refusing to look at Stiles and breathing shallowly to avoid Stiles scent.

 

They reach L.A in under three hours. Peter frowns, unsure of where Stiles is taking them.

 

“Where are we going?” Allison asks, pulling out the headphone that is in her left ear.

 

“L.A Arboretum Library,” Stiles replies, flicking the indicator. “I have a friend who works in the supernatural lab below it, she has access to equipment that will be able to analyse the samples at a much higher level.”

 

Stiles parks in the botanic garden car park and leads them through the gardens to the library with casual ease. Lydia walks beside Stiles, asking him question after question. Stiles seems happy to indulge her, his scent takes on a flavor of fresh lemon although this is hard to discern given the overbearing scents of the garden. Once they’re inside the library, a vast modern building, Stiles holds up his hand to make them stop.

 

“Give me a minute,” Stiles says, swinging the duffle bag around to his right side before heading over to the front desk. He leans over, smiling winningly at the tall Cambodian woman behind it. She seems pleased to see Stiles; her smile is wide and affectionate. They start chatting in what Peter assumes is Khmer. He wasn’t aware that Stiles could speak it. Lydia looks suitably impressed by Stiles apparent excellent grasp of the language. Stiles and the woman chat some more, before Stiles walks back over.

 

“Come on,” Stiles says, beckoning the group with his index finger. They walk briskly through the towering shelves. Peter breathes in the scent of paper and ink intermingling with layered fragrances of the humans milling about. Peter remembers when Stiles used to take Derek and Cora to the library when they had school projects, encouraging them to use varied resources as opposed to the Internet.

 

_“I’m a big fan of Google, but not everything has been loaded onto the Internet for easy perusal. I mean seriously, the Argent’s can put their bestiary on a USB stick but no Deaton wants me to read his ancient dusty books instead. Anyway, books are good kids, use them.”_

Peter smiles softly to himself at the memory.

 

They reach the wall at the other end of the library. To the naked eye it appears to be solid brick however Peter notes Stiles sly grin and looks again. The thin outline of a door appears, shifting in and out of focus like a camera lens. Stiles traces the swirling shape of a rune with his index finger on the brick. It flares a bright neon green; there is a loud clicking sound and the door melts away.

 

Where the door used to be, is the metal interior of a elevator. Lydia enters first, followed by Allison. Peter slides in beside them, Stiles right behind him. Stiles presses the neon number seven on the panel on his left. The door rematerializes as the elevator descends. Irritatingly jaunty music plays from tinny speakers. Stiles hums along merrily, head bobbing slightly. Lydia catches Peter’s eye and raises a perfectly sculpted brow but says nothing.

 

The elevator dings shrilly when it reaches the seventh floor. The door slides open with a faint whooshing sound. Stiles strolls into the room beyond, whistling the tune from the elevator. Lydia strides out, kitten heels clicking on the polished marble floor. Allison and Peter are somewhat more reluctant, sharing a mildly concerned look before joining their companions.

 

The room is a large laboratory, filled with curious metallic machinery, which whirrs loudly. The strip lighting overhead is startlingly bright, washing everyone in pale yellow. Forest green ivy clings to the walls, sharing space with giant umbrella shaped flowers, all various shades of pink. Several cacti sit in terracotta pots in between machinery, some round, some tall but most are flowering. Peter breathes in the smell of oil and earth. He wrinkles his nose in mild disgust when he passes a cabinet full of yellow wolfsbane.

 

Along the back wall is a desk, covered in paperwork and various plants in multicolored pots. Seated at the desk is a woman, her dark hair tied up in a high ponytail. It swishes as she bobs her head to the loud music playing from her headphones, which are a violent shade of orange. She’s mouthing the words as she circles something on her paperwork with a red biro. Stiles raises a hand, motioning for them to stop. Peter watches the corners of Stiles mouth turn up in a way that Peter is all too familiar with.

 

Stiles walks round the desk, till he’s standing behind the woman. He places his hands over her eyes, causing her to screech, blindly thrashing her arms about. One arm whacks Stiles in the chest, causing him to stumble back a little. The woman rips her headphones off, standing up so she can turn around.

 

“Wienczyslaw Stilinski,” She says which is the only bit that Peter understands before she goes off into an angry rant in what Peter knows is Polish but can’t fully comprehend due to the speed at which she speaks. Stiles replies in Polish, speaking in a placating tone.

 

“How many languages does Stiles speak?” Allison whispers to Peter.

 

“When I knew him,” Peter replies, “English, Polish, Ancient Greek, Latin, French, sketchy Mandarin and Japanese. He appears to have added Khmer to the list.”

 

“Sketchy Mandarin?” Allison asks.

 

“My Mandarin is limited to ‘ _no those aren’t my suitcases_ ’ and ‘ _but you’re far too young to be a police officer_ ’,” Stiles says, cutting into the conversation, “And yeah I added Khmer and decent Spanish to the list.”

 

“Decent Spanish?” Peter says, smirking. Stiles’ Spanish used to be abysmal; it was amazing that he even managed to pass the class in High School.

 

“Yeah, yeah Hale,” Stiles, mutters, raising his middle finger and waving it in Peter’s direction. “Anyway, this is Caitlin.”

 

Caitlin waves happily at them.

 

“Hello,” She says brightly.

 

“Caitlin is gonna analyse the samples for us,” Stiles says clapping Caitlin on the shoulder. “Cause she’s a badass botanist and this way she can clear all the outstanding poker debts she owes me.”

 

“You cheat,” Caitlin grumbles, shoving Stiles playfully. He clutches his chest and gasps dramatically, putting his other hand to his forehead.

 

“Lies and slander.”

 

“Whatever Wienczyslaw,” Caitlin taunts, eyes lighting up in glee at Stiles indignant reaction.

 

“Shall we look at the samples?” Lydia suggests though it feels more like an order. Stiles opens the duffle bag, reaching in to grab the test tubes and petri dishes. He hands them to Caitlin who looks intrigued. Lydia, Caitlin and Stiles immediately launch into a very detailed and scientific discussion, overlapping each other in their enthusiasm.

 

Peter tries to stand in a casual way, trying to avoid moving into a defensive pose. There’s an connection between Caitlin and Stiles, friendly and intimate in a way that irritates Peter immensely. He has always been the possessive and jealous type, more so when the he’s not in a relationship with the object of his affections. Mostly this has only ever applied to Stiles.

 

“Are you alright?” Allison asks softly, touching Peter’s arm.

 

“Fine,” Peter replies, aiming for nonchalance. Allison doesn’t look convinced but she doesn’t press. Unlike her boyfriend, she can be incredibly perceptive.

 

Stiles wanders back over to where Allison and Peter are standing, skin flushed with excitement. Peter ignores the clench in his gut because he remembers that beautiful shade of red in very different settings.

 

“So, Caitlin is gonna do her thing,” Stiles says, “Which is likely to take a while. So, you can stay here and be bored by Lydia and Caitlin geeking out over botany or you know, it’s a nice day to walk around the gardens.”

 

“I might stay,” Allison says, pulling her satchel around to open it. “I have some homework that I should be doing even though most teachers aren’t too fussed given the current crisis.” She makes herself comfortable at Caitlin’s desk.

 

“What are you planning to do?” Peter asks, looking at Stiles.

 

“I have errands to run whilst we’re in the big city,” Stiles replies. He seems to see something in Peter’s expression because he asks, “Do you want to come along?”

 

“Am I allowed?” Peter retorts. He’s been idiotic, this is a chance to spend time with Stiles without interference from anyone else. However Stiles attitude towards him seems to fluctuate between intense anger, agonized guilt and mild tolerance. Mild tolerance is practically balmy compared to the chill of his anger.

 

“Jeez,” Stiles snaps, “Come with me, don’t come with me, I really don’t care.”

 

He stomps off, muttering furiously to himself. Peter breathes heavily through his nose before following. The music in the elevator has changed from jaunty to something that sounds suspiciously like jingle bells. Stiles hums it aggressively as the elevator ascends.

 

//

 

L.A is sluggishly hot. Stiles has left his coat in the car, the lack of sleeves on the t-shirt leaving his arms bare. His tattoos thrum with magical energy, they’re practically luminescent. Peter raises his hand to his eyes to block out the oppressive sun. The sidewalk shimmers, hot black tar glittering. Stiles throws his hand out, catching Peter in the chest.

 

“What?” Peter gripes pushing Stiles sweaty hand away. Stiles points to the sign that’s above their heads. It’s a violent shade of purple and Peter can’t make out the extensive gold lettering due to the brightness of the sun.

 

“Violet isn’t exactly a big fan of werewolves,” Stiles says, “It’s probably best if you wait outside.”

 

Peter snorts.

 

“If I recall correctly, someone was supposed to be keeping an eye on you.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles retorts, “But that was Allison and she was more than happy to stay behind. That’s not the point, I’m trying to save you from being turned into a fur coat.”

 

“I think I’ll take my chances,” Peter scoffs, pushing past Stiles and entering the shop. The first thing the hits him is the overwhelming smell of various potion ingredients. The second thing is a dagger, which hits him directly in the shoulder. Peter falls backwards, roaring in anger and crashing into a candle display.

 

“Jeez Violet, he’s with me,” Stiles says, stepping over Peter. He leans down until he’s at Peter’s eye level. He looks smug.

 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Stiles says before yanking out the dagger. Peter bares his teeth in a small snarl. Stiles rolls his eyes, standing up and twirling the dagger around in his hands as if it were a child’s toy. Peter gets to his feet, wound already healing. He rolls his shoulder around a few times.

 

“You dare bring a werewolf into my store,” an angry voice hisses from the depths of the shop. The black woman that the voice belongs to is approaching, brandishing a thermo-cut wire. She smells human, though magic is tingeing the scent with its caramel sweetness.

 

Stiles runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth.

 

“I dare,” Stiles replies, “Now are we gonna do business or are am I going to have to stop you murdering Peter? I’m assuming you don’t want a repeat of Minsk.”

 

Violet’s eye dart to the dagger in Stiles hands. She seems uneasy underneath the mask of anger and bravado. Peter makes a mental note to ask about Minsk later.

 

“Clean up the candles,” Violet snaps at Peter, turning on her heel and stalking back to the counter. Peter goes to protest but Stiles places a hand on his shoulder. Peter curls his lip into another snarl; he will not be treated like a errant child. Stiles gives him a withering look. He snaps his fingers. The display table and candles spring back into place, looking more artfully arranged than they did before Peter toppled into them.

 

Stiles removes his hand from Peter’s shoulder, walking up to the counter. Peter pretends he doesn’t miss the familiar weight.

 

“What exactly do you want?” Violet asks. Every word sounds as if it’s physically painful for her to speak it. She’s playing with the thermo-cut wire, manipulating it in her hands until it becomes a necklace. She puts it round her neck, staring directly at Peter’s face. Peter lets a fang drop below his top lip in warning.

 

“Play nice children,” Stiles says absent-mindedly, rifling through the ornate box of crystals on the counter.

 

“What do you want Stilinski?” Violet repeats, smacking his hand away from the crystals. Stiles rubs his hand, pouting. Violet looks unimpressed. Peter assumes that this is probably her constant expression.

 

“I need ingredients for a tracking spell,” Stiles says, “Also a blood magic knife that’s strong enough to channel Supermoon level magic.”

 

“Perigee-syzygy?” Violet questions, eyebrow raised. Stiles nods. Violet gives one last glare in Peter’s direction before marching off to retrieve the ingredients.

 

“Tracking spell?” Peter says softly, leaning in so he can speak directly into Stiles’ ear.

 

“I reckon what’s poisoning the Nematon is probably unique,” Stiles replies, running his hand over a rose quartz crystal, “I think I can use the spell to track where it came from, leading us to our sacrificial lamb, I mean culprit.”

 

Peter chuckles. A smile manages to touch the corners of Stiles lips. It’s a shadow of their former intimacy but it’s a reminder of how they used to be. Indulgent in each other’s space, gathering spell ingredients like other couples bought groceries. Stiles looks up from underneath his long eyelashes, lips parted in a gentle O. They’re close enough that Peter could place his hand on the skin showing where Stiles t-shirt has ridden up. Close enough to kiss.

 

Violet tuts loudly, effectively ruining the moment. Peter takes a step back.

 

“All the ingredients for a tracking spell, that’ll be twenty dollars” Violet says, tapping the brown paper grocery bag she’d put on the counter. “I don’t own a knife powerful enough to channel perigee-syzygy, though I imagine your _mercenary_ would know where to find one.”

 

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. It also distracts Peter from asking what Violet means by ‘ _your mercenary’_.

 

“I’m sure,” Violet retorts, hand open for the two ten dollar bills that Stiles slaps into it. “Now get out.”

 

“Always a pleasure Violet,” Stiles says sweetly. Violet grimaces. Stiles grabs the paper bag and turns to leave, whistling as he goes.

 

//

 

Stiles insists on having lunch in a crappy diner that looks like it hasn’t left the 1970’s and smells like sizzling fat. Peter surveys it all with distain, reluctant to sit in the cracked vinyl booths.

 

“For someone who relishes when negotiations go south and he gets to rip out a few throats, you are awfully precious about stains,” Stiles comments, perusing the laminated menu. Peter purses his lips but does eventually sit across from Stiles.

 

“Anything you eat here will probably kill you,” Peter says, eyeing the frankly disgustingly large portions of food exiting the kitchen.

 

“They have as much chance as the cigarettes,” Stiles mutters. He orders a strawberry milkshake and curly fries. Peter orders black coffee, knowing he probably won’t drink it. When it arrives and Peter catches the smell, he knows he definitely won’t drink it. Stiles begins to plough through the curly fries, evidently unaware of the impeding heart attack that will occur from the consumption of such greasy food. Peter stops himself from gagging when Stiles dips a few fries into his milkshake. It’s a habit that Peter couldn’t make Stiles drop for neither love nor money.

 

“Could you stop it with the face,” Stiles says. Peter blinks.

 

“What face?”

 

“That face,” Stiles says, pointing at Peter’s face with a curly fry. “The face where you’re pissed at me but you still want to kiss me.”

 

“I’m sorry my feelings inconvenience you,” Peter snaps, “It’s not like I had any real closure.”

 

Stiles scoffs, leaning back against the booth.

 

“Really we’re gonna do this here, in a crappy diner in the occult part of L.A.”

 

“It’s a conversation you’re eager to avoid,” Peter replies, “Why not in this awful diner?”

 

“Maybe I don’t want to make a scene, you dramatic bastard.”

 

Stiles pushes the remainder of his fries away. Peter sighs heavily.

 

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Peter asks. Stiles looks out the grimy window, his mouth set in a harsh line. “You just up and left one day; no note, no explanation, you just left town and never came back. Don’t I have the right to be angry?”

 

“You have every right to be angry,” Stiles replies, turning back to look at Peter. There’s an emptiness in his eyes, as if they’ve been hollowed out. “But don’t pretend that you don’t know why I left.”

 

“How would I know?” Peter growls, “You stopped talking to me. You shut me out. You took all that pain and kept it inside, locking it away from everyone. I wanted to help but you wouldn’t let me.”

 

“I’m not some broken toy you can put back together with love and acceptance,” Stiles hisses. The emptiness is still there but flames of anger flicker like broken Christmas lights along the edges.

 

“I never said you were,” Peter replies angrily, claws scraping along the underside of the table. “But we were fucking engaged Stiles, we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. I’m sorry that seven years wasn’t long enough for me to get over you.”

 

Stiles kicks something under the table. It’s probably the metal table leg, given the metallic clang.

 

“You think that wasn’t the hardest choice I ever made,” Stiles says, voice low and tight. His fists curl and uncurl on the table, jagged nails digging into calloused skin.

 

“Um, would you like the bill?”

 

Peter snatches the bill from the nervous waitress, slapping money on the table. The waitress takes it away, nearly tripping over in her ugly clogs in her haste to get away from the table. Stiles breathes out slowly through his nose, getting to his feet.

 

“We should get back to the lab,” Stiles mutters. He stalks from the booth and would have slammed the diner door had it not been on a soft close hinge.

 

//

 

“It’s a highly mutated herbicide,” Caitlin says, gesturing animatedly to the computer screen, which shows the poison on a molecular level. Peter thinks that Caitlin should sound less excited given the circumstances. Allison’s expression indicates that she agrees.

 

“Highly mutated herbicide?” Stiles says slowly, processing the information.

 

“The Nematon is a sentient being,” Lydia says, using a voice that implies she’s talking to someone very dim, “You can’t just kill the exterior, you have to kill the soul too. This herbicide has been magically modified in order to kill the Nematon in every sense of the word.”

 

“It’s lashing out because it’s being ripped apart from the spirit out,” Stiles muses, “That’s why it’s killing the town, the heart of the town is literally being destroyed. Jesus, whoever this person is, they’re either an bitter psychotic genius or dumber than a bag of rocks.”

 

“Can it be re-modified?” Peter asks, “Changed so it fixes the Nematon rather than destroys it?”

 

Caitlin scratches the back of her head.

 

“Not from the scientific end,” Caitlin says eventually, looking genuinely upset that science has failed to provide a solution.

 

“Someone made this thing by playing God,” Allison states, “Let’s be better than them and try not to do the same.”

 

“Our original magic solution it is then,” Stiles says, collecting the petri dishes and test tubes containing the herbicide. “But first we need to find the bastard.”

 

“A tracking spell?” Lydia enquires, in a way that implies that she knows the answer already.

 

“Exactly,” Stiles replies, holding a test tube up to his eye, “Let’s find the nutjob.”

 

//

 

The ride back to Beacon Hills is a lot shorter than the ride there. Peter spends most of it on the phone to Talia, explaining the situation whilst Allison does the same with her father. Lydia seems to be trying to wrangle an internship from Caitlin via Facebook and Stiles remains silent, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

 

They get back to Beacon Hills at early dusk, the sky streaked with orange and gold. Lydia and Allison are dropped off at the Argent house, leaving Stiles and Peter alone together on the way back to the Hale House. The silence feels suffocating but neither party is willing to break it. There are bigger things to think about than the bitterness between them. The Jeep pulls up to the house faster than Peter thought it would. He moves to get out but Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Once we get the evil dick, you, me, Talia’s soundproof office,” Stiles says, “You can yell, I can yell, we sort out our issues.”

 

“Sounds great,” Peter replies, shaking Stiles off and exiting the car. He doesn’t bother to check if Stiles is following him.

 

Talia is standing on the porch, her arms folded and expression neutral. Peter shoulders past her, slamming the door so hard the frame splinters. He ignores Talia’s soft sigh, stalking up the stairs to his bedroom. He passes Derek on the stairs who opens his mouth to speak but Peter cuts him off.

 

“Not. One. Word.”

 

Derek shuts his mouth abruptly, letting Peter stomp up the stairs.

 

//

 

Peter sleeps fitfully that night. He doesn’t want to confront the empty side of his bed, so he sits on the window seat, watching the wilting forest. He drifts off occasionally but mostly, because he likes to torture himself, he thumbs through the box of Stiles old things. Stiles didn’t take anything with him when he left, just the clothes he was wearing at the time. Most of Stiles things are in the attic, gathering dust but Peter has a few things in his room. T-shirts embedded with Stiles scent, old photos, tickets from concerts and movies. Their entire relationship catalogued in material things.

 

Peter wonders if he’s clung to the past for too long.

 

Around nine in the morning Talia starts banging on Peter’s bedroom door. Quite forcefully. Theoretically she could just smash the door in with her considerable Alpha strength but they don’t do that in this house because they’re civilized and replacing doors gets expensive.

 

“Peter get out here now,” Talia growls, words slightly slurred around her fangs. Peter does not reply. He’s shredding one of Stiles old t-shirts. It’s a particularly hideous one, blue with awful yellow writing proclaiming stud muffin and a crude drawing of a muffin. It used to be sleep soft, strong with Stiles scent. Now it’s a pile of rags in Peter’s hands.

 

“PETER!” Talia roars, using her alpha voice. Peter drops the shredded material to the floor, stalks to the door and wrenches it open.

 

“What, sister mine?”

 

“Downstairs now,” Talia hisses, “I get that Stiles is an open wound but he’s about to perform the tracking spell and you need to be there.”

 

“Why?” Peter enquires, claws scraping the doorframe. Talia’s eyes glint red.

 

“Regardless of the past,” Talia says, each word sounding like it taste bitter in her mouth, “You are still his magical anchor as he is yours.”

 

Peter takes a chunk out of the doorframe.

 

//

 

The thing about anchors is that they are subject to change. Derek’s anchor was anger throughout his formative teenage years until he realized that being angry at the world and all if it’s inhabitants was making him miserable. Peter has always been in control of himself, been his own anchor. Though the sound of Stiles heartbeat has always been a comfort, regardless of distance or time, Peter has found solace in it’s rapid beat. Constantly erratic and fast even in sleep.

 

Mages only really need anchors during spells. Day to day magic doesn’t typically require it. The requirement of an anchor is to be the Mage’s tie to the corporeal realm, pulling them back to themselves. It’s usually a supernatural creature, hence where the myth about familiars came from. Peter was Stiles anchor until he wasn’t.

 

Peter is skulking outside the basement door, refusing to go in without Talia. Stiles is inside, setting up the spell with his father. It was always remarkable to Peter that Sheriff Stilinski produced such a gifted child, considering most of his ancestors were lackluster hunters.

 

“Peter’s still your magical anchor then?” John says, phrasing it as more of a statement than a question.

 

“More like he’s the only anchor in town who is familiar enough with my magic to not let me float off to a higher plane or whatever,” Stiles mumbles in response. The scent of clary sage begins to waft through the doorway.

 

”Anyway,” Stiles continues, “It’s not like I couldn’t get Braeden to come if I was doing serious magic.”

 

Peter shoves his hands into his jean pockets to prevent himself from destroying more woodwork. He isn’t sure who Braeden is; wonders if she was a better anchor for Stiles. Wonders if Stiles was as intimate with her as he was with Peter.

 

“Have you and Peter had _the talk_ yet?” John asks, recapturing Peter’s attention. There’s the sound of a candle being knocked over.

 

“Did you have to say it like that, jeez Dad,” Stiles replies, “Once we’ve found the bastard...”

 

“Language Wienczyslaw!”

 

“Sorry, once we’ve found the _culprit,_ then Peter and I are gonna hash it out in Talia’s office.”

 

“Good, you should have done that a long time ago.”

 

“Yeah, I’m well aware of that thank you.”

 

“Stiles,” John begins but Stiles cuts him off, tone unyielding.

 

“We have a tree murderer to catch and a town to save, perhaps we should concentrate on that instead.”

 

John sighs but says no more. There’s the strike of a match, the scent of burning wicks. Peter lets his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes. He picks out the sound of Stiles heartbeat. It causes the tension to slide from Peter’s shoulders. He opens his eyes when he hears Talia walking down the rickety wooden stairs.

 

Peter enters after Talia. Stiles is mixing spell ingredients in a black ceramic bowl with one hand, murmuring under his breath whilst John unfolds a map of Beacon Hills, placing unlit candles on the corners to keep it flat. Stiles’ eyes keep flickering between amber and pearlescent like fairy lights set to strobe, emphasized by the bare light bulb above Stiles head. Stiles runs a finger down the handle of the knife that’s next to the bowl, caressing it lightly. He places the grinder down onto the table with a clunk. He picks up a glass bottle, uncorks it and drizzles an inky substance into the ceramic bowl.

 

“Well,” Stiles says, “Let’s get this over with. Dad if you stand next to Talia, Peter come over here and prepare to shove your claws into the back of my neck should I decide to drift off beyond the mortal plane.”

 

Peter dutifully goes to stand beside Stiles. It’s not hard to picture another time when they did this, there are so many to pick from. It should feel familiar, easy. It doesn’t. It feels like walking along the edge of a sidewalk, knowing you could tip one way to safety or tip the other, straight into traffic. Peter breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, centering himself. Stiles clicks his fingers, resulting in the remaining candles lighting themselves.

 

“Let’s catch ourselves a killer,” Stiles murmurs, uncorking a test tube and dropping the sample into the ceramic bowl. He then places a hand on Peter’s chest right where his heart is. Within seconds, they are breathing in sync. Stiles closes his eyes, putting both his hands into the ceramic bowl, covering them in the mixture. He lifts his hands out, placing them together as if in prayer. Stiles begins to chant, the mouth shaping the words to the spell in a way that seems almost careful but powerful. His voice has taken on an ethereal quality, resonating throughout the room, which seems to have become darker, as if the light bulb has gone out and only candle flame remains. The hairs on the back of Peter’s arm stand on end.

 

Stiles puts his arms out straight, extending them over the map. The spell ingredients congeal and drip from Stiles hands onto the map, fizzing and burning where they land. Stiles grabs the knife, his chanting louder, spoken with a righteous fury. The blade is pointed downwards as Stiles raises it above his head. His eyelids fly open; Stiles eyes are like nebulas in space, colorful and infinite. Stiles plunges the knife down, piercing the map and embedding in the table beneath. The ingredients crackle and hiss, burning away the rest of the map until only the area around the knife is left.

 

The candles extinguish themselves. The light bulb flickers back to life. Stiles is breathing heavily, hand still grasped around the knife handle. The nebulas in his eyes recede, retreating into the pupil. Peter gingerly pries Stiles hand from the knife, whispering soothing nonsense in his ear.

 

“Gotcha,” Stiles whispers, his lips curling into a smirk.

 

Peter makes a noise low in his throat, a comforting rumble. Stiles rubs the palms of his hands into his eyes, sliding his hands down his face and tilting his head back. Looking up at the ceiling Stiles announces:

 

“I fancy a cigarette. I’m gonna have a cigarette.”

 

John coughs in a way that implies that he doesn’t approve. Stiles ignores his father, wrenching the knife out of the table and handing over the piece of map still relatively intact.

 

“That’s where the poison can be traced to,” Stiles says, moving out of Peter’s grip. “So you know, take your Deputies, kick down some doors, catch the dude red-handed and haul him off to jail.”

 

“And what will you be doing?” John asks.

 

“I’m going to have a cigarette,” Stiles states, walking towards the exit, “Then while you’re busting down doors and the village elders are meeting to discuss the fate of the asshole who’s killing the town, Peter and I are gonna have a screaming match in Talia’s office. You can start a betting pool on who comes out of that alive.”

 

Stiles smiles sarcastically, spins on his heel and disappears up the stairs.

 

“Seems that decisions have been made,” Talia observes, “Perhaps Sheriff, we should go to the station to decide a plan of action. Catching the culprit is our main objective now, decisions about their _fate_ can be made after Stiles and Peter have discussed their issues.”

 

John nods, making a swift exit. Talia looks to Peter, almost as if she wants to say something but decides against it. She too, takes her leave. Peter breathes out a long sigh.

 

//

  

“You’re having a glass of whiskey before we’ve even spoken,” Stiles says, closing the door behind him. “Isn’t that a little… presumptuous?”

 

Peter ignores him. He finishes pouring the liquid into the crystal glass. Stiles stinks of cigarette smoke, it smothers his natural scent. Magic still tinges the air around him however, toffee apple and cinnamon sweet. Peter places the whiskey bottle back into the cabinet, shutting the glass door before turning to face Stiles. He swirls the whiskey around the glass a few times before taking a sip. The wolfsbane tincture adds a certain floral burn to the taste.

 

“So how do you want this to go?” Stiles asks, “I assume you’ve got questions and accusations and…”

 

Stiles trails off, looking down at his hands. He shuffles awkwardly for a few seconds, as if trying to find his feet. Peter wonders if that’s a metaphor for their relationship now.

 

“Why did you leave?” Peter asks. Another sip of whiskey. He wants to ask why did you leave me but refrains from doing so.

 

“Because I couldn’t stay here anymore,” Stiles replies. He stops curling in on himself, stands tall and defiant. “I couldn’t stand the overwhelming pity that everyone felt for me, _poor damaged_ _Stiles_ , it must have been so hard for him. I was walking around with half the town’s blood on my hands and they all assumed I was this weak broken boy. They romanticized my pain; I was drowning in guilt and they made me into a fucking martyr.”

 

“You’ve never cared what other people thought of you,” Peter retorts, “And I never looked at you with pity.”

 

“I murdered an entire hospital corridor of people,” Stiles says, voice cracking like a thin sheet of ice. “Plus countless others. And I had to live with that. I was looking at an abyss, and you either succumb to it or you take a step back but you cannot walk its edge for long. Leaving was my step back.”

 

“You were possessed!” Peter slams the glass down on Talia’s desk. It’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter. “You were possessed by a bastard of a fox spirit. It wasn’t your fault. Those deaths were never on your hands.”

 

“Oh please,” Stiles scoffs. He looks insulted. “Did you really think I wasn’t strong enough to contain the Nogitsune?”

 

“I saw it ripped out of your body.”

 

“I didn’t say I expelled it,” Stiles snaps, looking furious at Peter for not understanding. “From the moment I was possessed I started fighting. Until I was performing blood magic and I felt powerful. I remember everything I did, I was fully conscious of my actions and I liked it. I felt in control and it was **_glorious_**.”

 

Stiles has a fire in his eyes, not the warm comforting kind. The kind that reduces cities to ash.

 

“And then we were separated,” Stiles continues, crumbling like a wall that has been beaten by the raging sea. The fire dies. “I was surrounded by the lives I had taken and I realized that I’d let power manipulate me into someone I didn’t recognize. I wrecked this town, and I couldn’t live with people viewing me like I was the casualty.”

 

“I don’t care about other people,” Peter snarls, “I don’t care about what you did. I love you; I have never stopped loving you. And you left me. You left me, without an explanation, without a discussion. I would have given whatever space and time you needed to heal, but you wouldn’t let me. You were wallowing in your grief, justified in doing so maybe, but you shut everyone out. You shut me out.”

 

Tears are fighting to escape Peter’s eyes. Stiles rubs furiously at his own eyes, suggesting the same.

 

“I never wanted to hurt you.” Stiles is looking directly at Peter, refusing to avoid his gaze. He takes a few steps forward. He’s within touching distance. “Out of all the people in this town, you and my Dad were the two people I never wanted to hurt. Guess I really fucked up there.”

 

“I would have run away with you,” Peter murmurs. He wants to grab Stiles hips, pull him closer. “If you had just told me, I would have gone with you, wherever you wanted to go until you felt whole again.”

 

“I wanted to give you the chance to find someone better,” Stiles replies, “Someone stable. Someone who could be the husband or wife you deserved.”

 

“And the deal we made?” Peter enquires. Stiles exhales shakily.

 

“Blood magic corrupted me,” Stiles says, “The Nogitsune corrupted me. I needed to know that if it ever happened again, someone who loved me would end it.”

 

Peter remembers that night in crystal clear definition. It’s burned into his mind, a memory that does not have the rosy hazy of nostalgia acting as a filter. It’s bittersweet and haunting.

 

//

 

_Stiles is already in bed. He’s often in bed these days. His depression drags him there and Peter feels so helpless because he can’t stop it. He can’t seem to do anything that will help Stiles. It’s been six months since the Nogitsune was forced from Stiles body, six months of Stiles hiding away from the world. Peter tries to be understanding but he feels like he’s failing Stiles._

_Peter climbs into bed, he doesn’t bother to pull Stiles towards him. Stiles flinches at any physical affections now. Peter refuses to let himself be selfishly sad about that. Stiles will return his affections when he is ready._

_Stiles is currently lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Peter tries not to wince when he looks at the dark circles that have taken up permanent residence. He wonders if Stiles has slept properly in the last six months. Peter flicks the bedside light off, settling down in the soft sheets._

_“Peter,” Stiles says. His voice sounds hoarse, as if Stiles has been screaming._

_“Yes Stiles,” Peter replies softly, turning to his left side so he can look at Stiles. Stiles rubs a hand down his face. His nails leave a red mark down his cheek._

_“Can I make a request of you?” Stiles asks. He sounds so formal and stilted, the words foreign on his tongue._

_“Anything,” Peter murmurs. Stiles runs his tongue along his lips before dragging his teeth across the cracked flesh._

_“If I ever go down that path again,” Stiles says, “If I ever hurt anyone innocent again, I need you to kill me. I don’t think… no I know that I won’t be able to come back to you a second time.”_

_“Stiles,” Peter cuts in, trying to stop Stiles from continuing but Stiles ploughs on._

_“Peter, I need you to kill me, please. I can’t feel that way again. I don’t want to hurt anyone innocent ever again. I was a monster and I just can’t ever be like that again.”_

_Tears fall from Stiles eyes, making them red rimmed. Stiles looks distraught and tired and it makes Peter want to go back in time and rip the Nogitsune apart for doing this to Stiles. Peter has never loved anyone like he loves Stiles, believed he was incapable of feeling so overwhelmingly protective of someone who wasn’t immediate family. He doubts he’ll ever feel anything this powerful for anyone else._

_“I’ll do it,” Peter agrees. He doesn’t believe that Stiles will ever kill anyone undeserving of it again but if he does, Peter believes that Stiles would prefer to die in Peter’s arms rather than alone._

_“Thank you.”_

_Stiles turns over, away from Peter, lying on one arm and the other covering his head as if he’s shielding himself from the world. Or perhaps shielding the world from him._

//

 

Stiles harsh tone brings Peter back to the present.

 

“I couldn’t deal with what I’d done so I left. I ran away from my issues. I just wish it meant I hadn’t run away from you.”

 

Peter yanks Stiles forward, crushing their mouths together. Stiles responds enthusiastically, hands pulling up Peter’s V-neck so that Stiles can touch Peter’s waist. Peter growls against Stiles mouth, biting the bottom lip, teasing and taunting. He backs Stiles up against Talia’s desk, pressing soft kisses down Stiles cheek until he reaches the skin beneath Stiles ear. Peter grins against Stiles skin before biting, knowing that this will make Stiles hips snap forward and grind against him.

 

He’s right.

 

Stiles moans, low and loud. Peter reveals in that sound, familiar and yet unknown. He sucks bruises into the pale flesh of Stiles neck. Peter is determined to remove the foul odor of cigarettes and replace it with his own scent. Stiles should smell like a combination of both of them.

 

“Are you aggressively scent marking me?”

 

Peter growls.

 

“I’m gonna take that as a _fuck…_ yes!”

 

Peter drops down, unlacing Stiles boots with one hand and undoing Stiles jeans with the other. He can feel Stiles cock beneath the fabric, smell the precum dripping from the tip. It smells amazing, pure unfiltered arousal. Peter tugs Stiles shoes from his feet, nuzzling against Stiles thighs. Stiles is gripping the edge of the desk, swearing under his breath. Peter ignores his own hardness in favor of jerking Stiles jeans down his thighs, chucking them away. He laps at Stiles cock through his boxers until those too are forcibly removed.

 

Peter suckles marks into Stiles thighs, nuzzling at the supple flesh. There are a few scars on Stiles hips that Peter doesn’t remember. Peter snarls at the thought of being unfamiliar with Stiles body. He forces Stiles up, so that Stiles is on the desk rather than perched on its edge. Peter smirks.

 

“OH HOLY FUCK!” Stiles shouts.

 

Peter is partially shifted, it makes his tongue longer. One hand braces on Stiles knee, the other gripping Stiles hip, claws pricking the skin. Stiles is panting, a colorful curse thrown in occasionally as Peter eats him out. He needs to get Stiles all sloppy and wet before Peter fingers him open. God he missed this, Stiles trembling as Peter wrings pleasure from him using his talented tongue. Missed the feeling of Stiles being completely pliant beneath him, sex dazed and responsive.

 

There’s a burst of cinnamon in the air. Then a bottle of lube pops into existence beside Peter’s feet.

 

“Did you just magically create lube?” Peter questions.

 

“No,” Stiles snaps, “I summoned it from the drawer in your bedside cabinet as it apparently hasn’t moved in seven years. Also who said you could stop?”

 

Stiles nudges Peter’s head with his knee. It’s gentle, playful. When Peter looks up, he can see Stiles is smiling at him. A genuine smile. He grins in return, grabbing the bottle of lube and drizzling some on his fingers. Peter stands up, pushing Stiles down so that he’s lying down fully on the desk. Papers flutter to the floor. The paperweight of the Milky Way that Derek bought Talia for her birthday tumbles from the desk when Peter pushes a finger into Stiles hole and Stiles throws his head back. He leans over Stiles, caging his body. Stiles t-shirt has rucked up, so Peter places butterfly kisses along Stiles stomach.

 

“When was the last time someone played with your greedy hole hmm?” Peter muses. Stiles is flushed, a beautiful rose color that stands out against his porcelain skin. The bruises are blooming; it appeals to the wolfish side of Peter to see his claim so bold on Stiles flesh.

 

“Peter,” Stiles whines, shifting his hips. Peter adds another finger, keeping the stretch slow and maddening. He wants to savor this, he’s been denied for so long. Stiles hands are scrabbling at Peter’s back, trying to get purchase.

 

“God, why are you still wearing clothes?” Stiles pants, “Take them off.”

 

“I see you haven’t stopped being a bossy little thing,” Peter comments. He simply tears his shirt from his body, uneager to remove his fingers. He undoes his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down his thighs. He doesn’t bother removing them completely, instead turning his attention to adding another finger. Stiles hands are on Peter’s shoulders. He pulls Peter closer until their foreheads are resting against each other.

 

“Need you,” Stiles gasps, “Come on Peter, need you in me.”

 

“Pushy,” Peter says, chuckling. He places a soft kiss against Stiles forehead. “You’re still a little tight, I want to get you nice and open for me.”

 

Stiles groans exasperatedly. Then he moans as Peter adds a fourth finger. Peter skates along Stiles prostate, almost touching but not quite. Stiles nails scratch along Peter’s back, his body rocking back and forth on Peter’s fingers.

 

“Peter if you don’t… fuck, fuck, if you don’t get in me soon, I swear to god I will punch you in your stupid perfect face,” Stiles threatens. Peter nuzzles Stiles neck, sucking another mark into Stiles wonderful neck.

 

“Condom?” Peter huffs into Stiles ear.

 

“Fucks sake, I’m clean, you’re clean,” Stiles growls, “Just fuck me already.”

 

Peter grins, presses a gentle kiss under Stiles ear before he pulls out his fingers. Stiles whimpers at the loss. Peter quickly retrieves the lube, slicking up his dick. He lines himself up before sliding into the velvet heat of Stiles wet hole. He does so teasingly slow. Stiles exhales shakily, arms reaching up to yank Peter down for a messy kiss.

 

“Come on,” Stiles whines, “Come on Peter, wanna feel fucking used.”

 

Peter’s eyes bleed beta blue. He begins thrusting leisurely, nuzzling at Stiles neck. Stiles has his eyes closed, biting his bottom lip. Stiles wraps his legs around Peter, interlocking his ankles at the base of Peter’s back. The air is thick with the smell of sex, of their combined scents. Gone is the funk of cigarettes, replaced with Stiles citrus tang. It’s perfect.

 

“Missed you,” Peter mumbles, increasing the pace of his thrusts. Rolls his hips in such a way that Stiles eyes snap open as Peter nails his prostate. Peter wraps a hand around Stiles cock, which has been neglected thus far. He times his thrusts with the jerk of his wrist, relishing in Stiles unraveling beneath him. A pleased growl forms in the base of Peter’s chest, escaping his lips as he presses sweet kisses over quivering flesh. Stiles cums first, going almost boneless, his plush wet mouth parted in a beautiful O. Peter finishes soon after, slumping over Stiles body, breathing hotly against sweat slick skin.

 

“I missed you too,” Stiles says softly, reaching a hand up to gently stroke Peter’s head. Peter tilts Stiles head towards him so they can kiss. It’s languid. Peter pulls away so that he can pull out gently. He probes at Stiles ass with his fingers, pushing his cum back in.

 

“Jeez,” Stiles complains, “I forgot about that. Wolves and the whole scent thing.”

 

Peter hums before kissing Stiles again. Stiles loops his arms around the back of Peter’s neck in order to keep him from pulling away.

 

“You do realize I’m never letting you leave again,” Peter murmurs.

 

“Yeah, no I figured as much,” Stiles replies. There’s something in Stiles tone that Peter can’t quite identify. He doesn’t sound displeased, or angry.

 

Peter growls playfully to ease the tension. Stiles laughs and the air smells like sunshine in summer.

 

The afterglow is cut short by Stiles jeans vibrating and a strange tune blaring.

 

“Someone’s calling my jeans,” Stiles mutters however he makes no move to push Peter away. Eventually the cell stops ringing. Peter’s phone starts immediately after. Peter growls at it, irritated. Stiles chuckles.

 

“You can’t growl it into submission.”

 

Peter chuffs against Stiles neck as if to indicate otherwise. The phone goes to voicemail and Talia’s irritated voice drifts across the room.

 

“Goddamn it Peter, that room is sound proof not smell proof. You are gonna clean my office from top to bottom and you better not use the lemon pledge; it made the kitchen smell like an Applebee’s bathroom. Get downstairs now.”

 

“We’ve been summoned,” Stiles comments. Peter pushes the rest of the paperwork off of Talia’s desk.

 

//

 

“That’s the culprit?” Peter asks, disdainfully.

 

“He’s like twelve,” Stiles exclaims, looking at Deputy Parrish with a look of utter shock on his face.

 

“Sixteen actually,” Parrish replies, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Caught him in the act though. I think he wet himself when he saw Talia’s fangs.”

 

The boy in question is currently huddled in the corner of the cell, looking fretfully around. There are two armed deputies on the door, both looking like they’d be happy to put a bullet in the boy’s kneecaps.

 

“Who even is he?” Stiles asks. He sounds offended, as if he cannot comprehend that a sixteen year old could pull off something so diabolical. Peter admits that this _child_ seems an unlikely candidate for an evil magical genius but looks can be deceiving. He was caught red handed after all.

 

“Matt Daehler,” Talia answers, exiting the Sheriff’s office, John following behind. “High school student. Started messing around with magic, believing it to have a more powerful effect on his issues than going to a therapist.”

 

“Well he sounds delightful,” Peter says dryly.

 

“I don’t believe it,” Stiles blurts, gesturing towards the cell, “This… this **infant** cannot be responsible for all this. There has to be something more.”

 

“We caught him in the process of doing the incantation, he was literally pouring the poison into a chalice along with bits of the Nematon,” John says, putting a hand on Stiles shoulder, “He’s also confessed.”

 

Stiles still looks dubious. He folds his arms, biting his lip. Peter hates it when he does that, it makes Stiles lips look all debauched.

 

“Our priority now is discussing what to do with him and saving the Nematon,” Talia says, side eyeing Peter. Peter grins lewdly back.

 

“Yeah saving the Nematon,” Stiles says vaguely, waving his hand at them in a dismissing manner. “I wanna talk to him. I’m gonna talk to him.”

 

“Is that wise?” Talia asks.

 

“I have to know how he did it,” Stiles says, “I have to know, it’s unlike any magic I’ve ever seen. I have to know.”

 

John and Talia share a concerned look. Stiles is muttering to himself, conjuring a pen and paper out of thin air and scribbling furiously on it.

 

“You might as well let him,” Peter says, “You know he’ll just sneak back in later regardless.”

 

“That is a completely accurate statement,” Stiles says, grinning.

 

John sighs in a way that implies that he wishes his child had a little more respect for the law.

 

//

 

Peter rubs his temples. Listening to the town council bicker is not dissimilar to listen to a particularly loud jackhammer early on a Sunday morning when you’ve got a hangover from the night before. Gerard, who has managed to slither out from whatever rock he’s been dwelling under, has an exceptionally grating voice. Peter would love to forcibly remove Gerard’s vocal cords but knows that, that action would be seen as an act of war and the Hale pack aims for diplomacy. The squabbling is cut short when the door slams open.

 

“I’ve got the answer to all your problems,” Stiles declares gleefully, striding into the room. He has an aura of power around him, his tattoos pulsing with magical energy. He’s also got several bruises that have blossomed around his neck but Peter feels that he is the only one who really cares.

 

“Have you?” Gerard sneers. Stiles grins at him in a slightly manic way.

 

“Oh yeah,” Stiles says, approaching the table. “I know how to fix the Nematon.”

 

Gerard looks unimpressed, but he’s the only one. Scott and Isaac are looking at Stiles with twin expressions of unadulterated awe.

 

“How?” Talia asks.

 

“It’s the supermoon in two days,” Stiles states, “My power is gonna be at an all time high. I get a knife that’s good enough to channel that kind of power and I’d only need one blood magic spell to fix this whole debacle.”

 

“Only one blood magic spell to fix this whole debacle,” Gerard quotes in a mocking tone.

 

“You say debacle weird,” Stiles retorts.

 

“What’s the risk?” Finstock interjects before Gerard can reply. “There’s always a risk and reward in this kind of nonsense. Basic economic principle.”

 

“Sometimes I forget that you used to teach economics,” Stiles says, eyes glazing over slightly as if he’s remembering his time at high school.

 

“What’s the risk Stilinski?” Finstock barks. Stiles shivers before responding.

 

“Less of a risk, more like a terms and conditions. We need to sacrifice Matt Daehler to the Nematon.”

 

“What?” Scott exclaims, managing to look both outraged and perplexed. Peter notes that everyone else, Sheriff included, seem to be fairly content with this idea. Hardly surprising seeing as the entire town is at stake. But Scott has always been so blandly moral, it’s frankly very dull.

 

“The universe is about balance,” Deaton says serenely, “The one that was killing the Nematon should be the one to save it.”

 

“Exactly D-man,” Stiles says, winking and shooting finger guns at Deaton. The corners of Deaton’s lips curl up slightly.

 

“I get that Matt Daehler is the bad guy,” Scott says, “He’s tried to kill the town and he has this weird obsession with Allison.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. Scott never fails to make everything about his girlfriend.

 

“But doesn’t killing him make us as bad as he is?” Scott continues, looking earnestly at Stiles.

 

“Scottie,” Stiles says softly, “Sometimes the bad guy has to die. And yeah, arguably that does make us as bad as him but there’s no other way around this. This is our chance to save the town with minimal damage.”

 

Scott looks distressed but nods.

 

“So we’re all agreed,” Talia states, “Stiles will perform the ritual, using Daehler as a sacrifice.”

 

“Well this feels all a little Wicker Man,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his head. “But given the nature of this, I’m not actually that surprised. So, let’s truss that boy up like meat at a medieval reenactment banquet, stick an apple in his mouth and lash him to the Nematon.”

 

“You could be a little more tactful son,” John mutters whilst Finstock guffaws, slapping his hand on the table. He turns it into a cough under Scott’s reproachful glare. Peter catches Stiles eye and they share a suppressed grin.

 

“Who’s going to be at the ritual?” Chris asks.

 

“Me obviously,” Stiles quips. He just grins when Chris raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“I’m thinking the alphas in the room are going to want to stay with their packs, given how temperamental the Supermoon can make the supernatural,” Stiles continues, folding his arms across his chest. Talia inclines her head slightly, suggesting that she agrees.

 

“I want to be there,” Gerard states.

 

“I bet you do,” Stiles murmurs, so quietly that only the werewolves in the room would be able to hear him.

 

“You’ve been known for making bad decisions in the past,” Gerard continues, arrogance and spite oozing all over his scent. “It would be best for all if you were observed closely.”

 

Stiles eyes glitter but not with anger like Peter’s expecting. He seems secretly pleased, but the emotion disappears before Peter can properly discern what exactly it was.

 

“Fine,” Stiles says, clearly aiming for nonchalant, “You, me, Chris, Deaton and whatever deputy Dad sends along with the accused. Should be about a fun as stabbing myself in the eye with this pencil.”

 

Stiles twirls one of the mechanical pencils from the table around his fingers in an aggressive manner.

 

“I believe that Peter should be present also,” Talia says, using her no-nonsense alpha voice. “To act as Stiles magical anchor.”

 

“What about the Supermoon?” Gerard taunts.

 

“My control is exemplary,” Peter replies coldly, refraining from flashing his eyes or dropping a fang. It would only prove Gerard’s point, no matter how much Peter wants to rip him apart. Not that the big bad veteran hunter would cower at the sight of a fang, but Peter lives in hope. Gerard looks unconvinced but he’s not going to argue with Talia.

 

“Well as fun as this has been,” Stiles says, tapping away at his phone, “I need to see someone about a knife.”

 

He salutes them as he walks backwards out of the room, still looking down at his phone.

 

//

 

Peter catches Stiles out in the hall. Stiles is studying his phone with intense concentration, oblivious to Peter’s presence. Peter comes up behind Stiles, placing his hands gently on Stiles hips. He nuzzles at Stiles neck, kissing softly beneath Stiles ear. Stiles hums contently, turning his head so they can kiss mouth to mouth. It’s sweet and lazy.

 

“Have you found a knife yet?” Peter enquires, hands sneaking beneath Stiles t-shirt in order to trace patterns onto bare skin. Stiles rolls his eyes at Peter’s actions but doesn’t push him away.

 

“I know where I can get one,” Stiles replies. Peter huffs against Stiles neck, tracing one of the bruises with his nose. Stiles still smells like a combination of Peter’s scent and his own. It’s intensely gratifying.

 

“Need company to acquire it?” Peter asks.

 

“No, where I’m going isn’t exactly werewolf friendly,” Stiles says, turning in Peter’s arms so that he can face him. Peter frowns, unwilling to let Stiles out of his sight. It’s a purely selfish notion, but Peter wants to bring Stiles back to the Hale House, embed their scent within the sheets a fair few times. Perhaps because he’s also worried that if he lets Stiles disappear from view, he might not come back.

 

“Don’t make that face,” Stiles mutters, reaching up to push Peter’s lips into a smile. “I need you here to make sure no one fucks up with my spell ingredients. And keep an eye on Gerard, that guy is just itching for me to fuck up so he has an excuse to legally shoot me.”

 

“Fine,” Peter replies, somewhat sulkily.

 

“I’ll come to the house when I get back,” Stiles promises, “Then we can bang like a screen door in a hurricane and upset your entire family.”

 

Peter chuckles.

 

“I’ll hold you to that promise.”

 

Stiles smirks in a way that implies that he hopes Peter does.

 

//

 

Peter spends the rest of the day with Deaton, compiling spell ingredients and setting up the alter beneath the Nematon, which shudders, it’s feeble branches trying to help Peter. Peter pats the tree good-naturedly and it returns the gesture with a pat to Peter’s head, almost like a grandparent being affectionate to their favorite grandchild.

 

After dinner, Peter retires to the porch, sitting in one of the wicker chairs. The air is cool, there’s a slight breeze that ruffles Peter’s hair. For the first time in a while, the air doesn’t feel stagnant. The Nematon has stopped blowing apart the town in anguish. The forest seems to have stopped holding its breath, it’s ready to breathe out and move on. Peter closes his eyes, breathing in. Even the stench of decay has started to fade.

 

“Uncle Peter?”

 

Peter’s eyes snap open. Cora is standing beside him, arms folded.

 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Peter teases. Cora snorts, flopping down in the other wicker chair and sticking her feet in Peter’s lap.

 

“Seventeen, not seven,” Cora replies, wiggling her toes. Peter raises an eyebrow, before tickling the sole of Cora’s left foot. Cora raises an eyebrow in return. Peter sighs dramatically, then sticks a claw in Cora’s big toe. Cora pulls her feet back scowling in a way that remind Peter of Derek. She did like to copy her big brother when she was little, scowling and crossing her arms and flashing her fangs in tussles with her cousins. Stiles was always good at getting Cora to smile, even if she did punch him in the shoulder occasionally.

 

“Is Stiles coming home?” Cora asks, tucking her feet under her legs.

 

“I don’t know,” Peter replies truthfully. Cora considers this, playing with the hairband that’s around her wrist.

 

“Do you want him to come home?” Cora asks a few minutes later.

 

“I do.”

 

“Even though he left?”

 

“Even though he left,” Peter says, “Love is selfish that way.”

 

Cora bites her bottom lip, running a hand through her hair.

 

“He left the pack,” Cora says finally. “I know you were engaged and he’s the love of your freaking life, but he left the pack. Shouldn’t we get a say in whether he comes back? He didn’t just abandon you. And everyone is acting like he’s a prodigal son, no one seems mad.”

 

Peter goes to reply but the roar of Stiles jeep cuts him off. It screeches into view, tires kicking up leaves and it spins into park. Stiles kicks the door open, staggering out. Peter pales as the strong scent of blood wafts towards him. Stiles is limping up to the house, clutching his ribs. His lip is split, blood dribbling down his chin. He wipes it away, spitting some on the ground. One eye is bruised, ugly and purple. Stiles stops at the base of the porch steps, looking up and grinning at Peter and Cora like a wolf over a freshly felled deer.

 

“Well the other guy is blind in his left eye so I think I got off alright,” Stiles says.

 

“Why did you ever come back here?” Cora spits, claws lengthening and retracting.

 

“Cora,” Peter reprimands, “Now is not the time.”

 

“No, now is exactly the time,” Cora growls, jumping up. Stiles backs up a couple of steps, allowing Cora to get right up in his face. He holds a hand up to stop Peter from pulling Cora away by the scruff of her neck like an errant pup.

 

“Let her say her piece,” Stiles says, “She’s entitled to.”

 

“You abandoned the pack!” Cora yells, eyes flashing beta gold, “Do you know what that’s like for wolves? A bond deeper than family, it’s like losing a limb. You left and you didn’t come back for seven years and now everyone is playing happy families like it never ever happened. You don’t get to come back and act like your engagement was the only relationship you fucked up.”

 

Talia, Laura and Derek have congregated on the porch behind Peter. Aunt Eleanor is herding the younger cousins, nieces and nephews back into the house. Talia moves to step in but one look from Stiles and she refrains. Laura and Derek hover awkwardly, arms folded and breathing over Peter’s shoulder.

 

“You hurt us all, I don’t think you can even comprehend how much!”

 

Cora’s hands are curled into fists; she’s pulling her arm back as if ready to punch but doesn’t.

 

“If you want to take a swing,” Stiles says softly, “You can, might as well make my eyes match eh?”

 

Cora drops her fangs, pulls her arm back further. She lets her arm fall.

 

“Cora,” Stiles says, “I am sorry. Sincerely.”

 

“It’s a bit too late for that,” Cora hisses, then shoulders past him, shifting and running off into the preserve.

 

Stiles sighs, spitting more blood onto the ground.

 

“Derek, Laura,” Talia says, “Go after her, don’t let her hurt herself.”

 

Laura cracks her neck before shifting, moving so swiftly that she seems almost a blur. Derek follows at a slower pace, nudging Stiles gently on the shoulder as he goes. Stiles smiles crookedly at him.

 

“Let’s get you inside,” Talia says. She sounds so much like their mother when she does that, it unnerves Peter sometimes. Stiles limps up the steps, leaning into Peter’s grip.

 

“If you even think about carrying me bridal style,” Stiles mutters, “I will punch you in the head.”

 

Peter doesn’t laugh.

 

//

 

“Fucking hell,” Stiles hisses.

 

“Hold still,” Peter snaps, dabbing at Stiles lip with an antiseptic wipe. They’re in Peter’s en suite; Stiles has a green, minty smelling salve over his black eye and keeps trying to move away from the wipe. Peter grips Stiles chin, holding him in place.

 

“It fucking hurts,” Stiles grumbles, “Where’s the bloody salve for this kind of shit?”

 

“Your wounds need to be cleaned before they are magically healed,” Peter retorts, “If for nothing else to teach you a lesson.”

 

“Don’t pick a fight in a hunters bar,” Stiles replies, “Got it, lesson learnt, now let me heal myself, FUCK OW!”

 

“For someone so incredibly intelligent, you are so completely idiotic that even I am feeling physical pain at your stupidity. What if a hunter had pulled a gun on you and I was picking shot out of an limb?”

 

Stiles scowls at Peter, tongue lapping over the cut in his lip repeatedly.

 

“Clearly you haven’t lost you ability to be completely reckless,” Peter continues, moving away to grab the salve from the first aid kit. “I thought perhaps you would mellow with age and experience but apparently not. You continue to push limits. Eventually it will get you killed and I…”

 

Peter trails off, breathing deeply to avoid breaking the sink. In truth, he’s furious with himself. He was foolish to let Stiles go alone; knew that an object with the ability to wield such power would be difficult to acquire. He should have had Stiles back but instead was fiddling with spell ingredients; something that Deaton is capable of doing without Peter’s assistance. He’s tentative around Stiles though; sex doesn’t mean their relationship is repaired nor does it mean Stiles will stick around after all this is done.

 

“At least Cora didn’t rip me apart as well,” Stiles says. It’s an attempt at levity but it falls short.

 

“Perhaps she should of,” Peter snaps. He doesn’t mean it. He turns to Stiles, salve in hand, ready to apologize but Stiles cuts him off.

 

“She’s entitled to, she’s right, I didn’t just hurt you by leaving.”

 

Stiles sighs, running a hand over his face. The dark circles look more pronounced, scarlet blood a contrast to pale skin.

 

“I have spent the last seven years running. From city to city, country to country, all in an attempt to outrun my past. And probably to outrun the pain of abandoning my pack. Well, the pack, don’t really have a right to call it mine.”

 

Peter crouches down, so that he’s beneath Stiles line of vision. Stiles looks down at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Peter applies the salve to Stiles lip tenderly.

 

“A month after you left,” Peter says softly, “It was Cora’s birthday. She sat on the porch all day, convinced you would come home because you’d promised to take her to Disneyland. When you didn’t come, I think it was then that she realized you weren’t coming home again. So yes, you did hurt the pack by leaving. That doesn’t mean you cannot earn your place again.”

 

“You think Cora’s too old for Disneyland now?” Stiles jokes. Peter chuckles. He presses a kiss to Stiles forehead.

 

“You would have to ask her,” Peter says, “But now, you need rest. Get into bed.”

 

“I think you’re going to have to do all the work tonight,” Stiles replies, running a hand over the bruises on his chest. He still manages to grin lewdly in Peter’s direction however.

 

“We’re not having sex Stiles,” Peter says, helping Stiles to his feet. “Especially after I do this.” He grips the back of Stiles neck and starts to drain his pain. Stiles legs buckle, pitching him sideways into Peter. Peter makes a small chuffing noise, whereas Stiles just starts humming happily.

 

“Oooh tingly,” Stiles says, giggling. Peter rolls his eyes. Stiles was in a considerable amount of pain, draining it has affectively made him high.

 

“We should bang,” Stiles, states matter-of-factly, stroking Peter’s face with all the care of a small toddler. “Like all the time. We used to do that. It was great.”

 

“You can’t consent right now Stiles,” Peter reminds him, helping Stiles to the bed and pushing him down on it. Stiles waggles his eyebrows and making grabbing motions with his hands.

 

“Come ravish me space cowboy,” Stiles says with a very serious expression on his face. Peter ignores Stiles, instead pulling off his dirty jeans, leaving Stiles in a blood stained t-shirt and briefs. Stiles takes it upon himself to take the t-shirt off but tries to gets stuck and needs Peter to wrench it over his head. Stiles flings himself back onto the bed, trying and failing to look seductive. Peter smiles affectionately.

 

“There is no ravishing,” Stiles points out, words slightly slurred. “I am very disap-disaaa-disappoint. I am very sad.”

 

Peter shoves his jeans off and throws his V-neck in a corner somewhere. He climbs onto the bed, yanking Stiles towards him. Their legs tangle together, Peter’s arms a possessive cage around Stiles waist. Stiles pushes his head into Peter’s neck, nuzzling gently.

 

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Stiles says, voice small. Peter kisses Stiles forehead.

 

“Go to sleep Stiles,” Peter murmurs. Stiles places a sloppy kiss on Peter’s cheek before his eyes flutter closed. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep. Peter breathes in their combined scents. It’s slightly tainted by injury and blood but still makes Peter’s happy. He falls asleep to the sound of Stiles heartbeat.

 

//

 

Peter wakes when he feels Stiles shift away from him. He makes an annoyed chuff that comes from the back of his throat, pulling Stiles back.

 

“I need to pee, get the fuck off,” Stiles mumbles, batting Peter’s hands away. His voice is sleep soft and low. Peter makes another annoyed noise but relents. Stiles pads off to the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door. As he pees, he chants, presumably to clear away any residual aches and pains with magic. The cinnamon scent in the air confirms it.

 

Peter listens to Stiles washing away the salves on his face. Drying his hands on the soft towels. Soft feet on creaking floorboards. Stiles climbs back into bed, throwing a leg over Peter and intertwining their fingers. Presses a soft kiss to Peter’s wrist.

 

“Morning,” Peter rumbles. His eyes open slowly. Stiles golden eyes are staring at him, a soft smile dancing across his lips. Peter grins, leaning forward to press a sweet kiss on the corner of Stiles mouth. Stiles doesn’t let him lean back, hand gripping the back of Peter’ head to slant their mouths together. Lazy, languid kissing, comforting in a way that feels like slipping into a hot bath. Peter’s fingertips glide up Stiles ribs, teasing touches that are barely there. Stiles nips at Peter’s bottom lip in response.

 

“How opposed would you be to spending today in bed?” Stiles asks, looking up from underneath his eyelashes. It reminds Peter of another time, of spending lazy days in bed with Stiles, snatching moments before work and before their room was invaded by nieces and nephews eager to play.

 

“We are not rutting in our underwear like teenagers,” Peter replies, absent-mindedly tracing patterns with his index finger on Stiles thigh. Stiles snaps his fingers and their underwear disappear.

 

“Problem solved,” Stiles says smugly, sliding down the bed until he’s positioned between Peter’s legs. Stiles nuzzles at Peter’s thighs, grinning obscenely. He runs his tongue over fully healed lips that are cherry red and silken. Peter is growing hard under Stiles frankly salacious gaze.

 

“Well,” Peter prompts, tilting his hips slightly.

 

“If you say it won’t suck itself, I’m withholding sex,” Stiles replies.

 

Peter opens his mouth to wittily retort but it turns into a deep moan when Stiles swallows Peter’s length. Stiles hollows out his cheeks, sucking sloppily and loudly. Peter threads his hand into Stiles hair, keeping him in place. He tries to stop from bucking his hips up but it’s been so long since he’s had such a good blowjob. Stiles sucks cock like it’s an art form, sliding his pretty lips back and forth. He suckles the head, tonguing the slit.

 

The air is thick with the salty tang of precum and combined arousal. It’s heady and perfect. Peter pushes his cock deep, loving the convulsive twist as Stiles swallows around him. Stiles is rutting against the bed, hands on Peter’s hips, human nails raking along his skin. Stiles pulls off, lips shiny with precum. Peter yanks him up, pulling him into a fiery kiss. He can taste himself in Stiles mouth.

 

Their cocks slide together, sweet friction that fizzles along Peter’s nerves. Peter runs a hand over the curve of Stiles ass, pressing a finger to a hole that’s still a little loose from yesterday but in need of some stretching. Stiles snaps his hips forwards, gasping. Peter grins, and they roll until Stiles is beneath him. Peter’s marks have disappeared from yesterday, fixed with healing magic. He needs to rectify this.

 

Stiles pants Peter’s names over and over. Only when Peter is satisfied does he stop sucking marks into Stiles beautiful skin. Suckled, bruised and red. Marked. Peter leans down, dropping words in Stiles ear with a voice that’s coated in arousal and sex.

 

“I’m going to open you up until you’re dripping for me. Then I’m going to fuck you, long and hard and if I’m feeling generous, you might get to come before me.”

 

Peter brushes a hand across Stiles lap, a tease designed to make Stiles gasp. Stiles smirks, rolling his hips up against the air. Peter gets Stiles spread beneath him, thighs crooked apart. He traces a drop of precum, following it with his tongue, enjoying the way Stiles jolts in surprise.

 

“You’re such a bastard,” Stiles mutters. Peter hums in acknowledgement, digging his fingers into the rounded flesh of Stiles ass, pulling apart so he can see.

 

“Did you sleep around much when you were away?” Peter asks. It doesn’t matter much, Peter has painted over the memory of Stiles previous lovers but a possessive part of him wants to know.

 

“Not much,” Stiles replies softly, “Mostly girls, guys reminded me of you but not in the ways that counted.”

 

Peter feels smugly satisfied by that remark. He dips his head down, lapping at Stiles hole. Quick, sharp pulses interspersed with gentle, slow laps, curling his tongue deliberately so it catches the rim. Stiles fists the sheets, whimpering. Peter works two fingers in easily but three is a snug fit. He nuzzles at Stiles thighs, biting bruises into soft flesh. Stiles cock is spurting precum, practically drenched.

 

Peter likes to get up to four fingers before he even thinks of putting his dick in Stiles. Likes it when Stiles is a writhing, sweaty mess beneath him, begging to be fucked. Stiles is cursing under his breath, hands gripping Peter’s shoulders as Peter stretches him. Peter keeps the stretch maddeningly slow, enjoying Stiles indignant whines.

 

“Kiss me,” Stiles demands, voice slick like oil, “Please, Peter.”

 

Peter does as he’s bid, nipping at the fullness of Stiles bottom lip. Their tongues twist together, a filthy reminder of what Peter wants to do to Stiles. Fuck him and fill him until Stiles is sobbing. Stiles has other plans.

 

It happens so fast that Peter isn’t entirely sure how it happens. One minute he’s sinking his teeth into the taunt stretch of Stiles neck, the next he’s on his back, with Stiles sinking onto his throbbing length. He throws his head back as inch by inch, his dick slips into warm velvet softness. Stiles is flushed red, skin hot beneath Peter’s touch.

 

“So greedy,” Peter teases.

 

“Next time I’m going to rim you until you come screaming my name,” Stiles retorts, hips rocking back and forth. Peter meets Stiles movements, enjoying the way he can watch the muscles in Stiles thighs flex. A broken noise slips out Stiles mouth, as he grinds into Peter’s lap. Peter pulls himself up so he can kiss Stiles, another filthy melding of mouths. God, Stiles is intoxicating.

 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m close,” Stiles, pants, forehead resting against Peter’s. The sound that reverberates in Peter’s chest is entirely animal.

 

“Come on then,” Peter demands, “Gonna cum all over yourself like the dirty boy you are, hmm? Come on, let me see.”

 

Stiles unravels, cum spurting all over his chest. They tumble backwards on the bed, Peter’s hips thrusting forward as he laps at Stiles chest. It’s slick and bitter in his mouth. Stiles whines at the overstimulation. Peter takes a nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his teeth until he thrusts himself to completion. He pulls out, falling beside Stiles.

 

Stiles turns towards him, throwing a leg over Peter’s hip and snuggling in close. The cum and sweat will settle onto their skin soon but Peter is loathe to move from this position. Stiles grins into the hollow of Peter’s neck, occasionally pressing a kiss into the skin there.

 

Within minutes they’re rolling around in the sheets again.

 

//

 

The moon is fat and round in the night sky; Peter can feel its power thrumming under his skin. His blood is singing with it, it’s exhilarating. He basks in it, the wolf just below the surface, the desire to run and hunt barely contained. It’s like every sense has been turned up to full power. This kind of power is intoxicating, he feels like he could do anything. He can only imagine how Stiles is feeling.

 

Stiles stands a few meters away behind the altar with Deaton, twirling the knife around in his hands. His tattoos are vibrant under the moon, pulsing with magic. Peter scents him, the tantalizing combination of lime and cinnamon. Peter wants to take Stiles right here on the forest floor, fuck him and mark him so that anyone who looks will know who he belongs to. He fights down the urge, knowing that now is not the time. He hears blades of grass bend as deer tread carefully through them, over a quarter of a mile away. Peter wonders if Stiles would be proud of him if he caught a deer and presented it; the instinct to provide and protect is battling with the instinct to run and claim.

 

Chris enters the clearing, smelling of gunpowder and old spice. He has a rifle slung over one shoulder and presumably semi-automatic pistols in holsters hidden beneath his jacket. Chris nods at Stiles, they seem to share a look but Stiles returns to studying the altar. Chris proceeds to stand off to one side, watching the altar with narrow eyes.

 

Gerard stomps into the clearing, looking and smelling a lot better than he has in months. The idea that Gerard could be going into remission feels Peter with dread, the kind that festers in the stomach. Gerard, like his son, has a rifle over one shoulder but doesn’t appear to have any other weapons. Peter would prefer if Gerard had no weapons at all but knows that’s asking for too much.

 

“Deputy Parrish will arrive shortly,” Deaton announces, walking out from behind the altar. He crosses the clearing to stand beside Peter.

 

Stiles begins to mix spell ingredients, chanting softly in archaic Latin. His eyes are pearlescent, the edges rimmed with gold. The air around him tastes like cinnamon and static electricity. The Nematon shudders, branches extending to stroke Stiles hair. The ingredients form a ruby substance that glistens in the moonlight. Stiles dips the knife in it. For some reason, Peter assumed the knife would be bigger or at least a little more ostentatious. It’s not very long, a dull silver blade but seems to be razor sharp. Stiles handles it with a careless grace.

 

Peter’s head snaps round when he hears the rumble of the police cruiser. Matt Daehler is screeching about injustice, but given that when the sheriff’s department searched his house they found his parents buried in the basement, Peter, and the rest of Beacon Hills, is disinclined to care.

 

Parrish enters the clearing, practically dragging Matt along behind him by the handcuffs. Matt pales at the sight of the altar, eyes wide with panic. Fear clings to him like bad cologne.

 

“Y-you can’t do this!” Matt yells, feet slipping on the decaying leaves. “I have rights.”

 

“Welcome to the world of the supernatural,” Stiles replies, “Nobody cares. Maybe you should have though about that before you tried to slaughter an entire town.”

 

“I..I.” Matt is at a loss for words, just spluttering and sweating. Parrish pushes him towards the tree. Matt’s eyes dart around the clearing, from person to person as if pleading with them to spare him. Deaton and Chris remain impassive but Peter lets a fang drop in his snarl.

 

Parrish holds Matt down whilst Stiles uses the knife to cut away his clothes. Matt whimpers the entire time. Stiles gathers the ruby substance on his fingers, drawing intricate runes and symbols onto Matt’s flesh. Stiles eyes glow brighter, a piercing light that seems to keep the shadows at bay. Stiles leans down, whispering something in Matt’s ear. Peter frowns, unsure why he can’t hear what Stiles is saying.

 

Whatever it is, it makes Matt’s eyes flick over to Gerard.

 

Stiles nods to Parrish, who backs away. Stiles tilts his head to one side and extends a hand over Matt’s chest. The runes glow the color of the setting sun.

 

“You shouldn’t play with magic that’s older than you are,” Stiles whispers. His voice has taken on that ethereal quality from before, sounding ancient and timeless. The Nematon’s branches slither forward, wrapping around Matt’s body and pulling him flush against the trunk. Stiles chain of flowers from a few days ago have turned scarlet. Magic is in the air; powerful, primal magic that thrums through the clearing, raising the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck.

 

“The universe demands balance,” Stiles states, “The one that’s killing the Nematon should be the one to save it. Right Gerard?”

 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Gerard replies, his mouth twisting into a sardonic smile.

 

“Well,” Stiles says, head inclining towards Chris. “Almost.”

 

Chris moves swiftly, twisting his father’s arm behind his back and forcing him to his knees. Gerard roars, a hand managing to snake around to his left boot, taking the dagger from it and stab his son in the thigh. Chris grits his teeth and bares it, cracking the butt of his rifle on the base of Gerard’s back. Parrish begins to move forward as if to help but Stiles raises a hand.

 

“Enough,” Stiles says, flicking his wrist. Gerard’s rifle crumbles into dust and Chris’s wound heals. The Nematon groans as it bows forward, branches outstretched for Gerard. Chris allows the tree to take his father, mouth set in a grim line.

 

Now both Gerard and Matt are lashed to the trunk, limbs splayed and held in place by thick branches. Gerard looks murderous. Stiles just grins at him, that feral grin from a few days ago, like a wolf standing over a fresh kill.

 

“Gerard taught Matt how to do it,” Peter states, making sure he’s caught up with the events that seem to have unfolded before his eyes.

 

“This is nonsense,” Gerard yells, struggling against his bonds, “You can’t prove anything.”

 

“Oh but we can,” Stiles says patronizingly. He slathers his fingers in ruby liquid as he continues. “You see, Matt here is too stupid to have done this on his own. And well, apply the right amount of pressure and all sorts of secrets spill out of his mouth. You promised him a betrothal to Allison in return for his help because you were too weak and too surrounded by hunters to pull off that kind of magic. As the Nematon got weaker, you got stronger; this kind of remission is nothing short of a miracle.”

 

Stiles draws the runes onto Gerard, tearing the clothes in places rather than stripping him like he had done with Matt.

 

“Lies,” Gerard hisses. Stiles gives him a pitying look as if he expects better.

 

“HE TOLD ME TO DO IT,” Matt shrieks, “HE TOLD ME I COULD MARRY ALLISON, THAT THIS WOULD WIN HER FAVOUR BY BRINGING HER GRANDFATHER BACK TO FULL HEALTH. HE LIED TO ME.”

 

“SHUT UP!” Gerard roars, eyes glittering with hate. Peter glances at Chris, who is staring pointedly at the ground.

 

“IF I’M BEING SACRIFICED, I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME!” Matt shouts, spittle flying from his mouth.

 

“Oh both of you shut up,” Stiles says, gesturing to both of them. Their mouths both clamp shut as if held together with bull clips. Gerard continues to struggle as his runes turn golden.

 

“Gerard was going to kill the town in order to save himself from dying from cancer,” Parrish states, looking deeply shocked.

 

“He’s a hunter, he’s not going to ask for the bite. Not that any self respecting alpha would give it to him,” Peter says, still watching Chris. Chris doesn’t exactly look comfortable with sacrificing his father to a temperamental sentient tree but he seems to be compartmentalizing. Peter wonders when he and Stiles formed this little plan.

 

“Perhaps we should begin the ritual,” Deaton says, looking up towards the moon. “The supermoon is in optimal position.”

 

Stiles twirls the knife through his fingers. It’s gleaming in the moonlight, almost like it’s sucked all the light out of the stars. The clearing almost seems darker, the only sources of light being the glowing runes, Stiles luminescent eyes and the knife.

 

“Let’s make some magic,” Stiles says, the gold at the edges of his eyes sparkling brighter. The air around Stiles seems to crackle, Peter can taste cinnamon and ozone on his tongue.

 

Stiles voice still has that archaic quality to it; it deepens as he speaks the incantation making him sound like a wrathful deity. He slits Matt’s wrists, not deeply, the blood is more of a trickle. His movements are quick and precise, small cuts all over the body, sometimes carving the runes into the flesh. With each cut, Stiles tattoos pulse and twist before fading to almost black. Stiles is slowly getting covered in blood, it splashes over his face and arms, dripping from his hands. He is quick with Matt, almost clinical about it.

 

But with Gerard it’s different. It’s like Stiles wants it to hurt. The cuts aren’t to drain the blood, but to cause pain. Stiles uses his hands at much as the blade, ripping and cutting and breaking. Peter can hear cartilage crack beneath Stiles fingers, can hear bones snap as easily as spiders web. Stiles slices different runes to the ones daubed on Gerard’s body into the flesh of Gerard’s thigh. It withers instantly, muscle wasting away and bones crumbling. Gerard would be screaming if his mouth could make any sound. Finally Stiles slashes Gerard’s throat open in two quick chopping motion, the blood spurting in four fountain like bursts from below his chin. The Nematon soaks it up, almost greedily guzzling the blood from the ground. Stiles breathing is labored. He sounds exhilarated.

 

Stiles drops the knife to the ground, blood trickling down his forearms to the palms. He lifts his right arm, the blood is almost black in the moonlight. Stiles appears to be studying the blood but it’s hard to tell as he has his back to them. Stiles raises his palm to his mouth then licks from the base of it to the top of his middle finger.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says tentatively, ready to sink his claws into Stiles nape if the spell has caused him to drift from himself.

 

Stiles whirls around, his lips split in a wide, blood stained grin. His eyes are empty like a black holes in space yet lightening seems to emit from them, tendrils of corrupted blood magic in the corporeal plane.

 

Stiles eyes are void.

 

“I forgot how **_good_** this feels,” Stiles says, studying the blood on his hands with morbid fascination. “Why did I give this up again? Oh that’s right, cause you ripped the Nogitsune out of me and I was forced to come to terms with my own conscience.”

 

Peter is frozen. Memories of the Nogitsune tug at his mind, but this is worse. This is infinitely worse. Stiles is brimming with distorted magic, the cinnamon tang replaced with something bitter. Darker. Peter’s mouth tastes like ash.

 

Parrish makes a move forward, eyes glowing orange and fangs extending. Stiles raises a hand and Parrish starts whimpering, dropping to his knees and curling in on himself.

 

“I could snap his neck,” Stiles says gleefully, “Or turn him inside out. The possibilities are endless. And you can’t kill me until the runes fade and the spell is complete otherwise the whole town will die. I mean it’s going to anyway but I want to give you a chance to try and stop me.” Stiles tilts his head to one side, licking blood from his lips. “I’m a good sport like that. And don’t even think of reaching for the tranquilizing dart Doctor Deaton.”

 

Stiles turns his attention to Deaton, finally releasing Parrish, who has passed out from the pain. Stiles clicks his fingers. The sound is deafening. Deaton flies backwards, crashing into a tree and crumpling on the grown beneath it. Stiles throws his head back and laughs.

 

The runes are still glowing. Peter doesn’t know how to stop Stiles. He can’t hurt him, he can’t. Peter knows how to kill, knows the pleasure of snapping a neck beneath his hands as long as that neck belongs to someone who is a threat to his pack. Right now Stiles is a threat but all Peter can see is the man he fell in love with. The man that was so broken by his possession that he couldn’t bare to be in this town with all the guilt. The man he promised he would kill but doesn’t know if he can.

 

The decision is taken out of Peter’s hands when Chris shoots Stiles in the kneecap. Stiles stumbles, crashing to the ground. His grin doesn’t falter however. Chris shoots Stiles other kneecap. Stiles doesn’t even flinch.

 

“Oh Christopher,” Stiles taunts, “You gonna kill me. Gonna kill me cause I killed your daddy. He kind of deserved it though. Maybe it’s cause of Kate. Little Kate, all the Argent’s think I killed her. She just disappeared one day and you found all those plans for burning down the Hale House with everyone still inside it, humans included. I did kill her. I tore into that weeping bitch and it felt so good. She was stoic throughout, barely made a sound. Sacrificed her to the Nematon for daring to even think about touching my pack. Afraid you can’t kill me though, that honor falls to Peter.”

 

Stiles looks at Peter, eyes the color of pitch and bottomless. Peter’s claws extend, his fangs dropping and eyes flickering between human and wolf. He made a promise. One he intends to keep.

 

“Can’t do it yet babe,” Stiles teases, gesturing to the glittering runes. Their color is fading but still present. The spell isn’t finished.

 

“Not that you’re going to,” Stiles continues, “You can’t kill the one you love. You’re weak. Your parents knew it, that’s why Talia became the alpha instead of you. Talia would kill me and she wouldn’t hesitate. She knows how to be a strong alpha. You’d be an awful alpha Peter, couldn’t protect me from possession, couldn’t stop me from leaving.”

 

Peter roars angrily, trying to drown out Stiles voice. The Nematon springing back to life cuts him off. Life is returning to the forest. The preserve rumbles, ground shaking. Peter falls backwards, landing hard on the soft earth. It’s like the first day of spring sped up on a time-lapse camera. The Nematon rises high and proud, the bodies of Matt and Gerard melding into the bark. Leaves unfurl, the chatter of the forest seemingly on full volume. It’s bursting with life, the Garden of Eden restored, lustrous and vibrant under the night sky. No longer does the clearing feel dark, there is no overshadow of decay.

 

It feels like rebirth.

 

“It’s over,” Stiles sings, shattering the moment. His mouth is still bloody, white teeth dripping. Steady hands stained up to the elbow. Eyes as empty as the celestial voids of the galaxy.

 

Peter promised.

 

The gunshot is like ice cracking beneath a steel boot. It’s dead center, perfectly symmetrical on Stiles forehead. Chris has always been a perfect shot. Stiles lies among the blades of new grass, looking up at the moon, heavy in the sky. The void has drained from his eyes, seeping away until all that’s left is the beautiful gold. Stiles eyes have always been breathtaking to Peter.

 

Peter kneels beside Stiles body, gathering it into his arms. Stiles is already cold. Peter throws back his head and howls. He howls until his throat is sore, until he has no more air in his lungs left to give but it’s not enough to fully cover his despair. Tears fall freely, he tries to wipe them away from Stiles cheeks but his hands are shaking. He presses a soft kiss on Stiles lips, to Stiles forehead.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t do it,” Peter whispers, “I’m sorry you died alone.”

 

Peter feels the Nematon’s branches at his back, silently asking to take care of its guardian. Peter’s not ready to let go.

 

Chris is tending to Deaton, helping him to his feet. Deaton is bleeding from a cut on his forehead but otherwise appears unharmed.

 

Peter’s not ready to let go.

 

Parrish is still out cold. What will the Sheriff say when they don’t come back with his son?

 

Peter has to let go.

 

He kisses Stiles forehead one more time. The Nematon cradles Stiles with such care. Stiles disappears into the boughs, hidden from view by leaves.

 

Peter had to let go.

 

//

 

It’s been three days. It feels longer and shorter all at once. Peter can’t sleep, not that he’s really tried. Everything after the Nematon took Stiles has been a blur, Peter not really present for it. He gets flashes of emotions, sorrow, regret, anguish. It’s been hard to discern to whom the emotions belong.

 

Stiles Jeep sits idly in front of the house. Occasionally Derek will open the hood, playing around with the engine. It refuses to start.

 

Peter is sitting on the porch, flicking listlessly through old photo albums. It feels like he’s been sitting there for days. He feels numb. It seems unfair that summer has returned to Beacon Hills; seems cruel that the preserve has returned to its former glory. If Peter was feeling destructive he would have taken his claws to bark. He feels like all his nerve ending are shot, they are no longer transmitting.

 

“Peter Hale?”

 

Peter looks up, glazed over eyes sliding in and out of focus. When they finally adjust, he sees a black woman standing before him. She has three long scars across her throat. They look like werewolf claws caused them. She smells like magic but not like she uses magic; there’s gunpowder in her scent, along with motorcycle oil and leather.

 

“Who’s asking?” Peter enquires. He closes the photo album.

 

“I am,” She quips. Peter feels like he’s being scrutinized under her gaze but doesn’t have the energy to feel unnerved.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Is Stiles around?” She asks. Peter tenses.

 

“Stiles is dead,” Peter spits, standing up. The woman looks pissed off, raising her eyes heavenward.

 

“That bastard,” She hisses, “God, I knew it. I knew it.”

 

Peter is confused.

 

“I’m sorry but who exactly are you and why are you here?” Peter asks.

 

“Braeden, and I’m here because Stiles is a selfish dick and got himself killed,” Braeden replies. Her eyes glitter with fury, as if Stiles death is a major inconvenience to her life. Peter isn’t sure he likes Braeden very much.

 

“Where did he die?” Braeden asks.

 

“By the Nematon, what does it matter?”

 

Braeden clenches her fists, furrowing her brow and her jaw tightens.

 

“Great, traipsing through the woods. I could be getting paid but no Stiles had to call in old favors.”

 

She stalks off to where her motorcycle is parked, opening the seat and rifling through the contents. She keeps muttering to herself, calling Stiles every name under the sun. Eventually she pulls out what appears to be a battered cigar case, held shut with duct tape. The case vibrates in her hands.

 

“So where is the Nematon? I need you to take me to it,” Braeden demands. Peter gapes at her, lost for words. Braeden raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

 

“Don’t have all day wolf.”

 

//

 

Peter isn’t quite sure how he managed to end up guiding Braeden through the preserve but he is. Maybe because he has a flutter of hope in his chest that whatever Braeden is here to do, it involves returning Stiles to him. However a bullet through the head isn’t something you can put a Band-Aid on and he tells Braeden as much.

 

“Urgh,” Braeden grumbles, “These boots are Italian. Look Stiles gave me basic instructions; I have a theoretical knowledge of what I’m doing and Stiles trusts me to do it.”

 

She stomps past him, grimacing at the mud on her shoes. The cigar box is still vibrating, getting steadily more agitated as they wander deeper into the preserve. Peter watches it with mild concern. Braeden keeps cursing at it and telling it not to be so impatient.

 

The Nematon sways in the breeze, back to full health and defiantly pleased about it. It reaches eagerly forward, stroking Peter’s cheek and patting his head. It doesn’t seem to know what to make of Braeden but shudders with what Peter is choosing to interpret as glee when Braeden holds the cigar case aloft. A branch scoops up the box eagerly, passing it from bough to bough until it disappears.

 

“What happens now?” Peter asks.

 

“I don’t actually… HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!”

 

Braeden stumbles backwards, eyes wide and mouth dropped open. Peter’s head whips around and his jaw drops too.

 

Light is shining from the boughs of the Nematon, bright, white, cleansing light. It emits from everywhere. It’s like staring into the sun, but it feels comforting. Familiar. It feels like Peter is being bathed in an celestial aurora but also like sipping hot cocoa on a winter day. Peter shields his eyes, as the light gets brighter, hotter. It’s combustion and reawakening and rejuvenation and all Peter can smell is lime citrus.

 

The light fades. Peter looks up at the boughs of the Nematon, waiting. Hoping. Minutes pass, Peter’s heart beats incredibly fast. Maybe nothing has happened. Maybe it didn’t work. Peter turns to look at Braeden and misses when Stiles falls out of the tree, smacking the ground with a thud.

 

“Motherfucker,” Stiles grunts, “I think my knees are repairing themselves.”

 

Peter drops down beside Stiles, cupping his face and tilting it upwards. There is no gunshot wound. Peter runs a finger over Stiles forehead, mouth parted in awe. Stiles is fine. Stiles is alive. Peter buries his face in Stiles neck, breathing in lime citrus, cinnamon and home. Stiles loops his arms around Peter, stroking his hair and whispering in a soothing tone.

 

“How?” Peter asks, pulling back.

 

“It’s old magic, like biblically, beginning of times old,” Stiles replies, running a hand through his hair, “I kind of split myself apart, separating my life from my physical body, duct taped it shut in an 1930’s cigar case and gave to my buddy Braeden for safe keeping.”

 

Braeden cuffs Stiles on the back of the head.

 

“I ruined good boots for this,” She grumbles, but her mouth is soft with affection.

 

“How long was I dead for?” Stiles asks.

 

“Three days,” Peter says. He can’t keep his hands off Stiles body, checking for injuries or bruises.

 

“Wow, I totally went Jesus on your ass. Also I think my legs are numb, you’re gonna have to carry me home.”

 

Braeden rolls her eyes, walking off out of the clearing. Peter picks Stiles up bridal style, nuzzling the top of Stiles head.

 

Back at the Hale House, Derek turns the ignition, hoping the jeep will start and nearly falls over when it sparks to life.

 

//

 

The party is in full swing. Lanterns hang between the trees, fairy lights festooned in between. The whole town is celebrating. The clearing around the Nematon is filled with people; the Nematon itself keeps scooping up excitable children and allowing them to swing between the branches. The music is loud, thumping through the preserve and the food and drink is flowing.

 

Peter has found himself a tree to lean against, glass of wine in his hand as he watches Mayor Finstock have an eating contest with Laura. Laura appears to be winning. Melissa McCall and John are dancing together, occasionally bumping into Chris Argent who is dancing with his wife, and hasn’t spoken to Peter since that night. Peter isn’t sure he’s ready to have a civil conversation with Chris so he makes no move to start any conversation.

 

He smirks when he spots Cora sneaks off with Isaac Lahey, who looks pleased if slightly bemused. Scott and Allison seem to have got the same idea and have wandered off in another direction. Lydia is teaching Jackson how to dance, which is hilarious and evidently frustrating for both parties. Derek is chatting with Braeden, the tops of his ears a wonderful cherry red.

 

“She’s going to eat him alive,” Stiles says, wandering up to Peter and following his line of sight. Peter chuckles, turning to face Stiles. Stiles takes a sip from his beer.

 

“Has everyone finished congratulating you?” Peter asks, placing his empty wine glass on a nearby table. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“God, my hand is numb from the amount of people who have shaken it,” Stiles complains, “I’m the town hero.”

 

Peter snorts, plucking the empty beer bottle from Stiles grip. Stiles raises an eyebrow, waggling it suggestively.

 

“Exhibitionist,” Peter mutters, pressing a tender kiss to Stiles lips.

 

“You love it,” Stiles murmurs, hands sneaking under Peter’s shirt. Peter gives a long-suffering sigh but concedes the point. He grabs Stiles by the V-neck (one of Peter’s the sly devil) and pulls him off into the woods.

 

They can still hear the music but are suitably far enough away from prying supernatural ears when they reach the lake. Peter toes off his shoes and sock, rolling up his jeans.

 

“I’m not having sex with you in a lake,” Stiles states, “That’s how you get urinary-tract infections.”

 

“We’re not having sex,” Peter replies, leading Stiles over to the jetty, shoes clutched in his other hand.

 

“Pity,” Stiles teases. He clicks his fingers and his shoes disappear. They walk down the jetty hand in hand, stopping just before the end. Stiles flops down, dipping his feet in the cool water. Peter is slightly more graceful. Their hands remain intertwined.

 

“What have you been doing the last seven years?” Peter asks, staring at their hands. Stiles tilts his head back, staring at the twilight that’s begun to close in around them. The sky is pink and gold.

 

“Mercenary work,” Stiles says honestly, “No blood magic. I met Braeden in a shifter bar in Nebraska. She knew what I was and needed my help. I guess I never stopped helping her. We’ve travelled the whole world, from job to job. That pottery shop was just a way of making money in between, Braeden went to visit an old friend a state over.”

 

Stiles breathes in deeply, huffing out on the exhale.

 

“It felt good to help people. Felt like I was balancing out the blood on my hands with people we saved. It was just money to Braeden but it kind of felt like salvation to me. I mean I’m magically gifted, that’s not something I can get rid of but helping people rather than hurting, it kind of made me happy to be a mage again. I mean bit’s of me are scarred to hell but it was worth it.”

 

Silence follows this. Peter looks up at the sky. They should be setting the fireworks off soon.

 

“Will you stay?” Peter whispers. He’s afraid of the answer.

 

“Will you let me?” Stiles replies.

 

“Yes,” Peter murmurs.

 

“Then let’s give it another shot.”

 

They kiss as the fireworks go off.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow right ok, did you like it? Was it good? Please leave a constructive comment or a kudo. I'm planning to do a sequel which is these events but from Stiles point of view which will explain some questions you may have but I haven't started writing that yet and it's going to be exam season soon so please please please be patient and don't ask for the sequel.


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